Breaking the Cycle
by theseeker64
Summary: The knight of Carim, Lautrec, has stumbled upon a terrible realization: the world of Lordran is being cycled over and over endlessly by a stream of 'Chosen' heroes. Now he is intent on finding a way to put an end to the madness, and is enlisting the aid of Quelana, Mother of Pyromancy, the trickster Patches, and others to resolve this eternal conflict - and break the cycle.
1. Chapter 1

Across the infested plains of Blighttown, beyond the mucky green swamps and past the cracked, decaying, pillars that held up the world, she saw him coming; his gold suit of armor glinting and gleaming off his torch with every cautious step he took. The man and his armor looked ridiculous. Gold had no place in the swamps. The swamps were for dark things, like herself, and Quelana decided that if the fool came within striking distance, she would melt that armor right off his body to teach him a lesson.

As he trudged through the swamp, swatting at the overgrown mosquitos and stepping carefully around a pair of cragspiders that were feasting upon a corpse, she realized that the fool wasn't just intending to come _near_ her, but that she herself seemed to be his goal. The eyeslits of his helmet kept moving towards her, returning to his footing, and then back to her as he drew nearer and nearer.

Quelana's heartbeat quickened. She stood and readied her pyromancy beneath the thick layers of her black cloak, keeping her eyes narrowed on the approaching stranger from within the crack of her hood. The golden fool, now only a dozen feet away, halted his approach and stood ankle-deep in the muck staring at her.

Neither of them spoke for a long while, then the sound of laughter rumbled from within the man's helmet and he pulled the golden thing from his head. Quelana squinted, remaining cautious, as he lowered it to his side and shook the chin-length thin strands of dirty-blonde hair from his face. His eyes landed on her, cold and gray, and his lightly-bearded mouth spread into a wide grin; his teeth white, straight, and clean. "Relax, witch. I don't mean to harm you."

Quelana shifted her weight to her backfoot. If the man was calling her 'witch', that meant he knew who she was, and suddenly she was no longer comfortable in his presence, exposed and alone. "What do you _want_?" She hissed from within her cloak, hoping to sound intimidating.

The golden man fixed those gray eyes upon her and took a step forward. Quelana lifted her arm, letting the cloak there fall to her wrist, and showed him the flames that wrapped her pale flesh and slender fingers, ready to strike; ready to burn. The man stopped, knelt, and stuck his torch in the muck before removing a shotel from a sheath at his back. He held it before him and turned the long, curved, blade of the weapon in a semi-circle, letting the torch flame play and dance off its steel, reflective, surface. He lifted his gaze back to her and offered another toothy grin. "You can burn me, witch, no denying it. But I _would_ survive the first blow and I would be awfully angry about it. Could you hit me with another before I lunged forward and stuck you with my blade here? Maybe, maybe not. Neither of us _really_ wants to find that out though, do we?" He waited for her to respond. When she didn't, he answered for her. "No, we don't. Snuff the flame, witch. I told you I don't mean to harm you... but I most certainly _will _however_. _Should it come to that."

"Answer me," Quelana snapped, feeling more uncomfortable with every passing moment. "What do you _want_, you fool!?"

"An end," the man told her, his face abruptly darkening. "An end... to all of this. This madness. This... _wheel_ of madness."

"What madness other than your _own_ are you speaking of?"

"We've met before, witch, and I know you know that," the man told her. "Think hard on it. You know me."

Quelana's brow furrowed beneath her hood. "I... you tell lies. Not only a fool, but a _liar_."

"What's my name?" The man insisted. "You know. Go ahead. Think. The first name that comes to your mind. What is it?"

"Lautrec," she said immediatley.

"Yes. That's it. You are correct. You see?"

Quelana shook her head. "What sorcery is this? What..." She stole a glance over her shoulder, growing increasingly paranoid of an attack. She wished she had been in hiding before the man had come. She had been intending to. If only she'd been quicker.

"I'm alone, witch," Lautrec explained. "Relax and clear your head. You're the only other one I know of who understands what I'm about to tell you. I know this, because I've told you before."

"You make no sense!" Quelana snapped. "It's your attempt to confuse me! To distract me! Where are your companions? Sneaking around in the shadows behind me?"

Lautrec laughed. "Witch, if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead by now. I wouldn't have shown you my approach from three hundred feet away. I would have snuck up on you and planted my blade into your throat. You have an incredible mastery of the flames, that much is true. But for a knight like myself? In your tattered robes and your bare feet? You think I couldn't have gotten the drop on you and disposed of you? I could have. I didn't. I do _not_ want to harm you. I won't say that again. Now listen to me. The chosen one is almost ready to be born into the world, and we don't have much time."

"Chosen one..." Quelana echoed and a veil of confusion lifted from her mind. "You mean... my pupil."

Lautrec grinned. "There we are. Hm, should have opened with that. A reminder for next time if, Gods forbid, there is one. Yes, the chosen one is often a pupil of yours. Yet sometimes they are not. Sometimes they murder you. Sometimes, even, they never meet you at all. You _are_ quite a crafty little hider."

"You speak of the Chosen as if he were many instead of one. Why?"

"Because I've learned the truth, witch. That this 'Chosen' one who comes stomping through our world, slaying beasts, ringing bells, filling vessels... if they were truly chosen to be the 'one' who ends it all, then they've failed. Time and time again. They have failed us. Or perhaps... we have failed them."

"How do you know this?"

"Because we are still here," Lautrec explained. He lifted his hands and took a look around the swamps. "Think about it, witch. You have a much, much, higher survival rate than I do during these cycles. The Chosen One is birthed into this world, completes all his or her tasks, sets off deep underground with old Frampt, and then slays Gwyn. Then they either light the flame or they do not. Either way - here we are. We live on. The world... it resets itself and a new chosen comes. You know this, witch. You and I have lived through this cycle for a long, _long_, time."

Quelana put a hand to her head and stared into the mucky waters near her feet. "This... can not be."

"And yet it is," Lautrec said with a sigh.

"How could you know things such as these?" Quelana demanded. "You are but a mortal man, yet you speak as if you're a God."

"It's taken me a very long time to peer into the abyss and see something more than the abyss itself," Lautrec explained, and Quelana noted he had take another step towards her as he did so. She wanted to burn him, but now... now she also needed to know what he had to say. "I believe it started with an inkling of familiarity on my part. A sentence spoken, perhaps. A movement. An action. A gust of wind that caught my attention. I can't be sure. Somehow, though, and at some _point_ I realized that I've lived this life before. The further I thought on it, and more apparent it became. I haven't just lived it once or twice. I've lied it tens of _thousands_ of times. Perhaps _millions_. Perhaps... perhaps forever."

Quelana began to see the face of her pupil. She had, for so long, thought of the pupil as one, but the face began to change and distort until there were many faces... too many to see clearly. She knew, then, that the fool was telling the truth. "The Chosen One... you are right. There are many."

"_Too_ many, if you ask me," Lautrec said with a bitter grimace. "When I first realized our eternal imprisonment of time, I believed that the Chosens were trapped here in our world, and this was their punishment. But now I see it a different way. _We_ are the prisoners, witch. You and I and every other inhabitant of this cursed realm. They aren't locked in our world, we're locked in theirs. And, quite frankly, I'm tired of it."

"Cycles... you spoke of cycles."

"Yes. The cycle begins when a chosen comes alive. It ends when they face old Gwyn. Then a new chosen comes. Sometimes they seem... fresh. Like they've never done it all before. But many of them... many of them _return_! They return with new knowledge and impeccable skills. They slay the monsters of this world with ease, rushing to the finish line, and to what end? Why, to do it all _again_!" The golden knight had grown increasingly angry as he spoke, and now his face was red and flustered, and his teeth were barred and clenched. "Do you know how many times they've killed me, witch?"

"You deserved to die. You're a bad man," Quelana told him. She was remembering more and more as he spoke, and now she had remember something terrible. "A _wicked_ man! You kill poor Anastacia of Astora! The woman has no _tongue_, and yet you slay her! Again and again! You _murderer_!" The flames kissing her fingers grew and pulsed as her anger rose.

Lautrec rolled his eyes. "It always come back to that, doesn't it? Poor, tongueless, Anastacia. My business is my own, witch. You know nothing of it. Do not judge me as if you do. And you think the Chosen Ones are slaying me with some sort of sense of _justice _about them? Ha! Maybe a handful, but do you know the _true_ reason why I've been slaughtered tens of thousands of times?" He stuck his free hand out and pulled the gauntlet from it. On his finger was a gold ring. "For a trinket." He laughed a bitter laugh. "A ring that aids them on their journey. _That's_ why I die. If I'm wicked for taking the life of a mute firekeeper a few times, what does that make the Chosen? They've killed _millions_, and they show no signs of slowing down."

"Enough of this you fool!" Quelana hissed. "Why are you here and telling me all this? If this cycle is as endless as you say, there's nothing either you nor I can do about it!"

"Ah, that's where you're wrong, witch! You see, the Chosen One-_this_ Chosen One, at least-is heading to Gwyn right now as we speak. I hid from him. Stayed cloaked in shadow until he passed. Freed myself from my prison. Trekked across Lordran. Slayed many a foe. Took that infernal wooden wheel down here into Blighttown, and now I intend to fetch you and make one _last_ journey before Gwyn breaths his final breath. A journey away from Lordran and to the place where all of this begins. The Undead Asylum. You and I are going to be there when the new Chosen is born. Then we're going to find a way to break this cycle and put an end to this madness. Forever."

Quelana stood thinking on all of this new information. Only one question remained worth asking. "Why me?"

"I am the greatest knight in Lordran," Lautrec said without a hint of humility in his voice. "But even the greatest knight can not hope to accomplish such a monumental task as disrupting the very nature of the _world_ alone. You are Quelana, offspring of the Great Witch Izalith, Daughter of Chaos, and Mother of Pyromancy. If I have _you_ at my side, I need no other."

It was Quelana's turn to laugh. "Your mistake, you golden fool, is that you believe I would ever agree to aiding such a despicable, monstrous, and conceited man as yourself. Away with you. This 'cycle' you're so intent on ending doesn't bother me. I've grown quite fond of it, in truth. Now leave me."

Lautrec stared at her for a moment. A grin crept up his face. "_Your_ mistake, witch, is that you assumed I was _asking_ for your help. And, of course, that you believed me when I said I'd come alone."

A second man leaped from the shadows at her side before Quelana could ignite her pyromancy. His weight crashed into her and sent them both down to the ground. She winced in pain and cried out, trying to twist free of the man's grasp. Flames sparked from her fingertips, but if she sent them any further, she risked catching her own robes on fire. The second man was giggling as he wrestled her arms to her sides and began wrapping her wrists up in a length of rope. "I got her, Lautrec! I got her! Hee-hee! Fire bitch! Got her!"

"Bravo, Patches," Lautrec said dryly, stepping nearer to them. "You overpowered a frail women. And from _behind _at that. Now bind her quickly before she melts the flesh off your bones."

The bald man giggled. "She can't do that!"

"She can. She _will_. Work quickly, idiot," Lautrec demanded.

The man's smile faded and he looked down upon Quelana. "You want to _burn_ Patches you fire bitch? Hm?" He giggled. "Got you good, didn't I."

"_Argh!_" Quelana roared through clenched teeth, trying to wrestle free of his grip. It was no use. She felt her wrists lock together before her as he tightened and cinched the rope. Then he rolled her to her side and wrapped her arms to her body, running the rope around and around until she was bound from her shoulders to her forearms.

"Hee-hee," Patches giggled. "Got her wrapped up tight, Lautrec. She won't burn nothing now."

"Good for you. Bind her feet," Lautrec instructed, setting his shotel back into its sheath now that she was secured. "Hurry. If Gwyn dies before we've left Lordran... all of this was for naught."

"Her _feet_? How she gonna _walk_ with her feet bound up?" Patches asked, scratching at his bald head.

"She's not, you idiot. You're going to carry her."

"Me? Carry!?" Patches snapped. "That's no fair! I don't want to!"

Lautrec knelt beside the man and fixed those cold, grey, eyes of his on him. "Really? Tell me more about the things you don't want to do, Patches. Go on... tell me of you complaints."

"I... I..." the man was clearly afraid of the golden knight. He swallowed, scratched at his head, and avoided eye contact with Lautrec. "Well, alright then. I'll carry her. Just don't see why is all..."

"Because we're in her domain down her. She could break loose, make a run for it, and we'd have to waste valuable time looking for her. Time that we do not have. So bind her and get her up. If you complain again... well, you know how I am when I get angry."

"Y-yes, Lautrec," Patches stuttered.

Lautrec nodded, stood, and plucked the torch from the ground. He faced the swamps and tucked the golden helm back over his head.

"Let _go_ of me you fool!" Quelana demanded, pulling at her binds. "Release me and I'll only burn _him_," she said, peering through her cloak at Lautrec.

"Quiet, fire bitch," Patches warned, rolling her onto her back and moving to her legs. "Ooo, barefooted fire bitch? Can't afford no boots, fire bitch? Hee-hee! Tickle tickle!" His fingers tickled at the soles of her feet.

Quelana lifted her foot straight up and felt the heel slam the man's jaw. Patches wailed and fell back to his butt. She flipped to her side, got her knees beneath her, and prepared to rush off into the swamps.

She made it two steps before Lautrec grabbed her by the cloak and pulled her back. "No!" Quelana cried out as the mans arms wrapped around her and pulled her into his body. The cold steel of his armor was hard and sharp as it pressed against her cloak. "Let _go!_ You have no _right_ to do this to me!"

Lautrec stared at her. He reached up and pulled the hood back away from her face. Quelana hated having her hood down. She felt exposed, naked. She grimaced as the cool air of the swamp swept her cheeks, brushed through her hair, danced across her lips. She tried turning away from the golden knight, but he held her still, craning his neck to stare at her. "Well... the rumors are true. You _are_ quite beautiful, witch." He stared a moment longer, Quelana squirming uncomfortably in his arms as his gray eyes flicked across every feature of her face. "Quite beautiful indeed."

Patches returned, muttering curses under his breath, and bound her ankles and knees right there on the spot as Lautrec held her. Then the golden knight released her, and the bald man took hold of her, giggling again as he scooped her up over his shoulder.

"Now let us make haste," Lautrec said, stepping into the swamp, his torch held before him. "We have a world to change."

Quelana's thin frame bounced off the bony shoulder of the man who carried her; her limbs and body bound and useless as she lifted her head and took one last, longing, gaze at her little spot in Blighttown. A spot she now feared she'd never see again.


	2. Chapter 2

The trip out of Blighttown was, thankfully, uneventful. Lautrec led them across the swamps, the witch Quelana bound and slung over Patches' shoulder, and to the great wooden wheel that lifted travelers away from the stench and foulness of the grimy lands below. The platform creaked with the weight of the three of them, but carried them upwards nonetheless. As they rose, Lautrec dug into the sack tied around Patches' waist and retrieved purple moss clumps for Patches and himself to consume. Swallowing the moss, he could feel the sickness of Blighttown washing away from his flesh and his health returning. The witch seemed mostly unaffected by the diseased swamps, and so Lautrec offered her none.

At the entrance tunnel leading outside and back towards Firelink Shrine, the witch began to struggle in her binds atop Patches' shoulder, and Lautrec was thankful he had disposed of the infested barbarians who stalked the pathway on his way in.

"She ain't making this any easier, Lautrec," Patches whined, grimacing and grabbing handfuls of the witch's robes. "Fire bitch is hurting my shoulder!"

Lautrec haulted their advance and signaled Patches to set Quelana down. The bald man smirked, nodded, and dumped her to the ground where she landed with a _thud_ in the dirt. Her hood had slid away from her face as she landed, and she stared up at Lautrec as he approached; the emerald green pits of her eyes shimmering with anger in the sea of pale, soft, flesh that was her face. "Get away from me..." she warned.

"You don't tell the Knight Lautrec what do do, fire bitch!" Patches snapped.

"Why are you making this difficult?" Lautrec asked her, ignoring Patches.

Quelana avoided his eyes as she spoke. "_Why_? You kidnap a woman, truss her up, and haul her away from her home and you have the audacity to ask _why _she makes it difficult? You truly _are_ a fool, aren't you?"

Lautrec traced the line of her eyes down the tunnel and to the strip of sunlight that awaited them, leading outside and to the Valley of the Drakes. When he looked back to her, he saw something beneath that smoldering anger in her eyes. "You're afraid, is that it?"

Quelana's look snapped to him and her mouth opened, but she said no words.

Lautrec nodded. "You've never left Blighttown, have you? Never even seen the sun in the sky I take it?"

"I..." Quelana stammered, lowered her eyes, sighed. "No... I have not."

"Hee-hee!" Patches giggled behind them. "Fire bitch is afraid of the big bad sun! Hee-hee!"

"Patches, what is your favorite finger?" Lautrec asked the man without turning to him.

"W-what?" Patches answered between giggles.

"Your favorite finger. Which is it?"

"I... I guess this one?" Patches moved to Lautrec's side and wiggled the index finger of his right hand. "This little finger has made a good number of bitches like her moan, I'll tell you that. Why?"

"If you refer to her as 'fire bitch' one more time, I'll cut it off."

Patches giggled, but when Lautrec set his eyes on the man and did _not_, Patches' face ran cold and he began rubbing at the finger protectively. "She's a master pyromancer and the daughter of Izalith, and a lot more valuable than _you_. Show her respect or the finger is mine."

"Gods, Lautrec, alright!" Patches shouted, still rubbing the finger. "Calm the hell down!"

Lautrec turn his look back to the witch. She was staring at the end of the path again. "Look, witch, you _are_ going out there. One way or another," Lautrec explained, dug the blade of his shotel beneath the ropes around her ankles, and cut them loose. "The sun is nothing more than a big ball of fire. You should be run at home beneath its gaze." He cut the ropes at her knees. "But if you fight us... run from us... waste our time any further... things can go badly for you. Do you understand?"

Quelana glanced at her freed legs before turning her green eyes on Lautrec. Her face was set in hard lines as she spoke, "You're going to burn for what you're doing to me, knight."

Lautrec nodded. "Fair enough. Some day I'm sure I will. All men must pays for their sins. But for now? Get up. And get moving. Patches, take point."

They proceeded like that all the way to Firelink Shrine; Patches leading them, whistling a melodic tune as he went, happy to be freed of the burden of carrying the witch; Lautrec at the rear, keeping a vigilant watch for ambush; Quelana between them, marching begrudgingly forward, her torso and arms bound in ropes. At the end of the tunnel, she put up some resistance to stepping into the sun, but Lautrec took her by the shoulder and nudged her forward until she stumbled outside. The witch gasped and winced as if struck by a mighty blow, but after a moment of realizing the sun was _not_ going to melt her flesh, she stood again and began taking fearful, cautious, steps forward. Lautrec moved behind her and pulled her hood over her head, and though she spoke no gratitude, she moved at a quicker pace from then on.

The were quickly in and out of the Valley of Drakes, briefly trekking past the haunted New Londo Ruins, and then up the long elevator that carried them to Firelink Shrine. They ascended the spiraling staircase of old stone and overgrown moss, and stepped out below the bonfire.

Quelana halted before the barred prison set into the earth below the bonfire and spun on Lautrec. "My pupils have told me this is where she resides. And yet, here she is _not_." The witch's voice grew angered from within her hood. "You killed her. Anastacia. Even with all your knowledge of cycles and patterns and Chosen Ones... you _still_ killed her. Why? If this world is destined to reset itself, _why_ still murder the women!? My pupils expressed such _great_ sorrows for-"

"_Enough_!" Lautrec shouted, and his voice was loud and angered enough to cause Quelana to step backwards away from him. She went quiet. "If there are a million lifetimes, I'll kill her a million times. Because I have to. And because she deserves it. No more on this. Move. _Now_." Even the mere thought of the woman was making his blood boil. He moved forward, spun Quelana around, and shoved her to get her moving again.

"What kind of knight are you to kill a helpless woman with no tongue," Quelana said quietly as she climbed the stairs to the bonfire above. "Pathetic."

"Speak of this again and _you'll_ have no tongue," Lautrec warned.

The witch turned to glare at him briefly over her shoulder, but said no more.

Patches stepped before the unlit bonfire, kicked at the ashes with the toe of his boot, and spit into its center. He turned his bald head to Lautrec and raised an eyebrow. "Now where? You never exactly told me how we _get_ to this Undead Asylum from here."

"The bird," Lautrec said, pointing across the arched stone passages that led underground to the Kiln of the First Flame. The giant black beast was there, perched high above, the black pits of its eyes staring down upon their party.

"The bloody _crow_?"

"Yes. And Frampt is gone. That means the Chosen is facing off with old Gwyn right now as we speak. We're out of time. Let's move."

"How the hell is the crow going to get us anywhere?" Patches asked, scratching at his head. "And how are we supposed to get the things attention?"

"Follow me. I've done most of the heavy lifting for us already," Lautrec explained, took Quelana by her bound wrists, and pulled her beside him as he quickly moved up a flight of stone stairs and around the high walls of the inner pool.

After a short walk around, they came to the base of a towering stone structure. A rope dangled down to them from high above, swaying in the cool breeze. "Climb," Lautrec said, taking the rope and shoving it against Patches' chest.

Patches swallowed, his eyes widening as he traced the rope up and up to the top of the structure. "That's a damned hundred foot climb, Lautrec!"

"_Climb_," Lautrec snapped. "We have no more time for chatter."

"Gods help me..." Patches whispered, touched his forehead, and then hopped up and grabbed the rope at the highest point he could before starting the long and difficult process of ascending it. "I suppose I'll be hauling the fire bi- er, well, the fire... _witch_ up after me too, ain't I?"

"Yes. She couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds though, if that. You'll manage."

Patches moved higher up the rope. "If I fall-"

"You'll die. Or be so broken I'll _leave_ you for dead," Lautrec explained. "So... don't fall."

"Why keep the idiot around?" Quelana questioned once Patches was high enough to be out of earshot. "What use could he possible be to you?"

"I need aid," Lautrec said. "And there is little to be found in these cursed lands. I came upon him in the catacombs. He tried murdering me."

The witch turned her hooded face to him.

Lautrec grinned. "He _tried_. Obviously, he was not successful. I defeated him, and instead of ending him I made him swear his allegiance to me."

Sardonic laughter came from within the witch's hood. "Loyalty sworn under knife point is no true loyalty."

"No," Lautrec agreed. "But I'll take what help I can get, as temporary as it may be. Plus, the man's already tried to kill me once and failed. When he does inevitably tire of taking my orders, he'll try again. Likely, the results will be the same."

Quelana was quiet for a moment, then said, "A witch in chains and a man sworn under false loyalty. And you expect this foolish mission of yours to succeed?"

"I _expect_ to change things. Or to die trying." The rope came tumbling back down to them, and Lautrec craned his neck back to see Patches had made it up and was waving his hand triumphantly. Lautrec pulled the witch closer to him and fasted the length of rope around her waist. "He's not particularly strong," he told Quelana as he bound her. "So don't squirm about too much if you don't want to lose your life."

"My life?" Quelana echoed. "You think I value my own life? If I die, according to you, I just come back once this world resets itself. Isn't that right? Back in Blighttown where I belong."

"Maybe," Lautrec admitted, fastening the final knot. "Or maybe this is the time I _do_ change things and your miserable existence ends as a splatter right here at my boot. You can take the chance if you wish." He cupped his hands around the mouth slit of his helm and lifted his head. "Patches! Take her up!"

Quelana was hoisted off the ground, her bare feet dangling below her. She grunted at each jerk upwards; Patches pulling and pulling above. Lautrec watched her go, and when she was high enough, he could peer up and into the hood of her robes. Her thin lips were curled into a grin. He didn't like that. The sight of a witch smiling never meant good things. He'd learned that the hard way in another life.

"Hurry Patches!" Lautrec shouted. He watched as the dark figure of the witch was pulled the final length of tower, then disappeared over its edge. A moment passed, no rope came. "Patches! The rope!" Another moment. Still no rope.

Lautrec cursed and kicked at the structure. Either Patches had finally betrayed him, or the witch had a trick up her sleeve. Either way, it was bad. Lautrec turned on his heel and darted back down the length of the grassy pathway beside the tower. He spun around an archway, bounded up a flight of stone steps, and turned a corner at the top. An elevator pulley system awaited him. He rushed inside, waited until the pulley lifted him high enough, and then jumped outside onto the roof of the structure below. He'd watched the Chosen One do this. Several times, in fact. It was how he's tied the rope up there in the first place. He stepped to the edge of a grassy hill growing out of the mountain beside the roof and took a breath. A slanted stone pillar a dozen feet below, and another dozen away, jutted from the ground. It led to a staircase that would take him up to the top of the tower. He took a step back, judged the distance, took another step. He jolted to the edge of the hill, leapt with everything he had, and sailed through the air towards the pillar.

The gold chestplate of his armor _clanged_ off the rock as he came up just shy of landing on his feet. His golden gauntlets grasped for a holding, but found none, and for one head-spinning moment - he thought he was going to fall. Then his boot found a foothold and he dug in and pushed himself upwards. He hit the ground running, barreling around the corner and climbing the spiraling staircase in twos. Out of breath, his heart pounding in his chest, he made it up to the crow's nest.

Patches was working furiously to untie the knots around Quelana's wrists.

"_Patches!_" Lautrec shouted, but the bald man paid him no attention.

Quelana did, however, and quickly stepped away as he rushed forward and tackled Patches to the ground. They rolled twice, coming just short of sailing right off the edge. Lautrec's helmet banged the ground, twisting it to the side and blinding his eyesight within. He roared and ripped the thing from his head, tossing it aside. It rolled and disappeared off the edge. He ignored it, choosing instead to wrap his hands around Patches' throat and squeeze.

Patches' face went from yellow to red to purple. His eyes bulged in their sockets, rolling around wildly in his head. His hands grasped at Lautrec's own, but the strength had run out of them. Choked, gurgling, noises escaped his lips that might have been his attempt at words.

"Release him," Quelana called over Lautrec's shoulder. "It was my spell he was working under. I charmed him. You're about to murder a man for something he had no control over."

Lautrec snapped his head back to glare at the witch. She lowered her hood so he could see her. Her face was scrunched up in sincerity. He turned back to Patches, considered it, and let him go. Patches was torn between coughing and desperately gasping for air as the color returned to his face. Lautrec climbed off of him and stood. He saw that Quelana was standing with her feet at the very edge of the crumbling stone floor of the tower.

"What are you doing, witch?" Lautrec demanded. "Get away from the edge."

Patches was still coughing when he spoke from the floor, "W-What happened? Lautrec? What the hell _happened_!?"

"The witch put you under her spell," Lautrec explained, not taking his eyes from her. "And I nearly killed you for it."

Patches rubbed his throat and clambered back to his feet. "She... she did? I remember her whispering in my ear and her voice was... it was in my very _soul_."

"Step away from the ledge," Lautrec said.

Quelana looked back over her shoulder. "A fall from here would surely kill me. _Release_ me."

"Don't do it."

"Let her!" Patches protested. "She nearly got me _killed_! Demon-tongued wench!"

The wind picked up, sending her black robes into a wild dance around her thin frame. Her hood blew away from her face, and Lautrec saw there were tears in the corners of her eyes. "May I meet my mother and sisters in the life beyond."

"No!" Lautrec shouted.

The earth rumbled and a great, shrill, scream sounded from somewhere deep within the ground.

The three of them all went quiet, their eyes moving from the ground, to the sky, to one another.

"Gwyn is dead," Lautrec said. "The Chosen is about to make his choice. We have to go."

The earth shook again, and this time Lautrec used the opportunity to dart forward and wrap Quelana in his arms. She only mildly struggled. The rumbling had awakened some deep fear in her.

"What do we do!?" Patches shouted in a panic. "How do we get out of here!?"

"The nest. Get in the crow's nest," Lautrec commanded, pulling Quelana along beside him as he climbed into the bed of twigs perched at the structure's peak.

"This is bloody ridiculous," Patches muttered, climbing in himself. "What did I agree to following you on this adventure!? Sitting in a crow's nest a hundred feet off the ground as the world crumbles apart below us? This is _insane_! What do you expect to happen? That bloody crow isn't going to give a-"

The black wings of the creature came upon them so quickly, it was as if the sun itself had been blotted out entirely. Patches shrieked, and even Lautrec himself found his courage waver a bit. The witch said nothing, only stared at the great beast with curiosity.

"Oh, Gods!" Patches wailed as one of the creatures talons wrapped around his torso.

Lautrec pulled Quelana close to his body and wrapped his arms around her. The crow dug its talons down around them and squeezed him in its mighty grip.

"Can the thing hold all our weight!?" Patches pleaded.

"Let us hope," Lautrec replied.

He felt one final shake of the earth as the mighty crow spread its wings and lifted them from the nest. The cold air spiraled around them, flapping the witch's robes and pulling one of Patches' boots right off his foot. He screamed, but both Lautrec and the witch cradled tightly in his arms, remained silent. They watched as the crow carried them away from the Firelink Shrine, and the tower they had just previously been standing atop crumbled as the world itself seemed to be tearing apart.

Lautrec thought he had finally taken the first step towards true change.

He hoped he was right.


	3. Chapter 3

Even hollow, Abby could feel the cold biting at her flesh, the icy wind working its way beneath her robes, a deep chill taking up residence in her bones. She wrapped her arms tighter to her body and pulled her knees up towards her stomach. The stone floor of her cell was hard and jagged beneath her, but with no other bedding provided, she had to make due; her robes became her blanket, her own hat her pillow. There was a point when the hope within her had seemed to warm her, but as the days passed and the coldness grew, she began to come to an unfortunate realization, and it was sapping the warmth right out of her cell: she was going to die in here. Alone. And cold; so very cold.

At a point, she drifted to sleep. She did not dream because, she assumed, when you were hollow, the part of you that dreams goes hollow too. That made her sad. Sleeping as the undead was always brief, restless, and empty, and when she awoke, it felt like she had not slept at all. She wasn't even sure she _needed_ to sleep anymore. And yet she did. Maybe out of habit, maybe as a last defense against the bitter and relentless cold. Maybe because in a ten-by-ten cell, sleeping was the only thing you _could_ do.

"Skinny little thing, ain't she?"

Voices in the dark; words riding the winds.

"She's the one then. The one we suffer for."

Abby opened her eyes. That wasn't the wind speaking.

"Well lets get her up and get _out_ of here. I'm bloody freezing."

With a surge of adrenaline, Abby reached into her robes, found the hilt of her mace, and pulled it free. She rolled to her side, sweeping the mace in a defensive arc and clambering to her feet in one motion. She stood, the corner of the cell at her back, and stared wide-eyed and alert at the surprise company standing there before her. The one nearest to her was a tall and bald man with a queer grin on his face. Behind him stood a knight in golden armor. He wore no helm, though, and Abby could see his face was handsome, though his eyes were gray and piercing as they looked upon her. Beside him was a shorter figure clad entirely in black robes. There were ropes wrapped around the person's torso, arms, and wrists, and Abby felt a chill run up her spine as she gazed into the shadowy nook of the prisoner's hood.

"What's my name?" The golden knight questioned, stepping forward and moving the bald man aside so he could stand before her. "Answer me, girl. What's my name?"

Abby's eyes darted between the three of them, she licked her lips, swallowed. "I don't understand... who are you? Are you here to free me, or... or to kill me?"

"Answer my question and we'll find that out," the golden knight told her. "Who am I? Where are you? Do you know these things? Answer me true."

"No!" Abby snapped. "You're not making any sense! Please! I've been locked up in here for..."

"Go on. How long?" The knight demanded, stepping closer. "Or more importantly: how did you _get_ here?"

She lifted her mace with both hands and angled it before her to shield herself from attack. "Come no closer, sir, I beg of you!"

"Answers," he repeated. "Where did you come from?"

"Vinheim! Alright? My parents sent me to the Dragon School for sorcerers. I... failed. I was no good with magic. I took up the white arts, began practicing miracle-working. I'm a simple cleric! There no need to harm me! I-"

"I didn't ask for your damned life story, girl," the knight said, and by now he had moved within striking distance. "How did you get in _this_ cell. How did you go hollow?"

"I..." Abby began, but could find no words. Her brow creased as she thought about it, but the harder she tried to remember, the more distant any semblance of an answer grew. She swallowed, shook her head, returned her gaze to the knight. "I don't know."

"Good. You shouldn't," the knight told her. "Now answer my final question. _Who am I_? Think. Look at my armor. Golden armor. Who am I?"

"I-I..." Abby stammered.

The knight lunged forward. Abby cried out and swatted at him with her mace, but she had never been much good with it, and the knight was clearly trained for combat. He lifted his golden gauntlet, caught her wrist as it was coming down before she'd gathered any momentum, and wrenched he hand down to her side. His other hand shoved her back up against the corner of the cell, and before she'd even seen it happen, he'd unsheathed a large, curved, blade, and was holding it against her chest..

"_Please_!" Abby cried out, closing her eyes.

"You're hollow, girl. What fear does death hold over you?"

Abby thought about it. She supposed the man was right.

"One more time: who am I?"

She forced her eyes to open and study the lines of the man's face. Nothing came to her. He had told her to concentrate on the golden armor, so she did, but doing so produced no results. "I swear to you: I do not know."

The man's cold, gray, eyes fixed on her's and held, and after a few tense moments, he nodded, sheathed his blade, and released her. "She's fresh," he told his companions. "I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. But at least she's telling the truth."

"Hee-hee!" The bald man giggled. "Fresh _and_ hollow. A walking, talking, contradiction!"

Abby put a shaky hand to her forehead and took a deep breath to steady herself. "Who _are_ you people?"

"I am the knight, Lautrec, of Carim," the handsome man said, bowing his head slightly. "The hairless gentleman behind me is Patches. He's quite stupid and not to be trusted. I'd avoid him on our travels."

"Hey!" Patches protested.

"Well it's true, isn't it?"

Patches thought on it, shrugged, and nodded.

"Who is your prisoner? They frighten me," Abby admitted, narrowing her eyes on the cascading folds of black cloth that was the third person.

The knight stepped beside them and, with a slight struggle to escape his grip from the person within, took hold of the back of their hood. "This is our witch. Daughter of Chaos, Quelana."

"_Witch_!?" Abby echoed, taking a retreating step further into her corner.

The knight pulled back the hood. Abby stared at the woman he'd revealed within, nonplussed. She'd expected some monster straight out of the stories her parents had read her as a girl. Hooked and gnarled nose, green skin, warts, yellow and broken teeth. She saw, thankfully, none of that. The witch was _young - _or at least appeared young. Her skin was pale and clean and soft looking. Her eyes were a pretty shade of green, and loose strands of her ebony hair dangled beside them. A rag had been tied around her mouth; her thin lips wrapped around its knotted center.

"She's... beautiful," Abby said. The witch's eyes landed on her's.

"Yes, unfortunately so," Lautrec admitted. "A shame she's such a dangerous thing."

"Why have you gagged her?"

The witch turned her eyes to the knight to glare at him, but Lautrec quickly yanked the hood back up over her head. "Our pretty little witch here happens to have a serpent's tongue. She has the power to enslave your mind with but a few simple whispers in your ear. My bald companion nearly lost his life because of the trick."

Patches grimaced and rubbed at his neck. "Lousy fire bit- er, witch."

"What _power_..." Abby whispered, enthralled with the witch.

"Yes," Lautrec agreed, though he stepped between them so Abby could no longer stare. "A powerful prisoner she is, but not the most cooperative. Hence the binds."

"Where are you taking her?"

"The same place I'm taking you. Away from this damned asylum. Back to Lordran."

Abby frowned. "You intend to free me then, but... what awaits in Lordran?"

The knight shrugged. "Everything? Nothing? Who knows. We are on a journey of change. One that has already been started." His mouth spread to a grin and he lifted his hands to gesture at the cell. "Surely you feel that deep, _deep_, cold?"

Abby nodded.

"_We've_ created that. Step outside with me. See what wonderful change we've already brought."

The knight extended his hand. Abby swallowed nervously and looked down upon it, then back to him. She felt taking it was entering into some sort of pact with the knight and his companions, becoming part of them, and the idea frightened her. They all seemed so... strong. So _experienced_. She was a failed mage and a new cleric: what could she possibly offer them?

"I won't bite," the knight assured her, flashing another grin.

She forced a shaky smile in return and, with no other option, took hold of his hand. He bowed and lead her beside him out of the cell as the bald man took up the loose slack of the witch's ropes and pulled her along as well. The hall outside the cell was dark, torches hung in sconces in regular intervals lit the way, and it seemed even colder than her cell had. She hugged her arms to her body as they walked, the knight beside her leading her by the waist. Cracks in the wall at their right side gave way to a massive chamber. It was empty. At the end of the hall, a cylindrical room awaited; a long steel ladder jutting from the curved wall and leading up. Abby craned her head back and saw a white swirl of the outside world awaiting.

"It snows," she said.

"Yes. A blizzard in fact," Lautrec agreed. "It started just as we arrived here."

"Seems the Gods ain't keen on change," Patches added from behind them, snickering that queer giggle of his.

"I don't understand, sir," Abby said, turning to Lautrec. "What is this 'change' you and your companion keep speaking of?"

"Don't concern yourself with it for now. Just climb. You'll understand eventually."

Abby returned her gaze to the ladder and the world above. Her little cell behind her, she felt a surge of excitement. Her foot landed on the bottom rung, her hand took hold of one further up, and as she was about to climb, she turned back to the knight. "I... thank you, sir knight. For freeing me. I feared I'd spend the rest of my days in that prison."

Lautrec laid a hand on her shoulder and nodded. She returned the nod, smiled, and began the ascent.

The world was a white-washed, cold, wet, swirl above. Abby climbed out of the hole and had to immediately shield her eyes from the heavy downpour of thick snow. She took an arduous step forward through the shin-high tufts and let the snows land in her hair, on her face, on her tongue. She smiled; it was wonderful. She looked to the pale skies above and spread her arms, feeling a freedom that she'd never felt before.

The arrow pierced the hollow flesh of her chest so cleanly and with such ease, Abby hadn't even realized what had happened until she was staring down at the wooden shaft protruding from her torso. "Oh no," she whispered, cringed, and fell to the snows.

Her breath choked off in her chest and she could feel blood behind her teeth. She made a gurgling sound that might have been a cry for help, but even _she _wasn't sure. The snow was dampening her robes. She felt wet and cold and... alone.

The knight's face appeared above her a moment later. "What the hell..." he said, saw the arrow, realized what had happened, and rolled to the side.

As he did, a second arrow took the snow where he's knelt only a second earlier.

"Curse the Gods," he hissed, rushed back to Abby, and took hold of her robes at the shoulders. He dragged her back around the stone archway that lead to the ladder hole. He managed to yank her behind it just as a third arrow stuck the ground near her ankles.

"S-second... floor... " Abby croaked, every word a painful struggle. "Saw him... he's... like me. Hollow..."

"That's not possible," Lautrec told her, stripping the golden armor from his arms. "No hollow is that accurate." He turned back to the ladder hole. "Careful there, Patches. There's an archer up here."

"An _archer_!?" Patches' voice echoed from within the hole. "Well what do you want me to bloody do, Lautrec? I'm carrying the damned witch on my shoulder!"

"I'm going to kill him," the knight explained casually. He had peeled off his gauntlets and boots and was working at his chestpiece. "Give it a moment and then hurry up and take cover."

Abby touched at her wound, but her fingers caused a spike of pain. She clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyelids shut till it passed.

"Don't touch that. I'll be right back," the knight said.

Abby looked over at him. He had looked so large and imposing in his golden armor, but without it he had the build of an average man; a dark tunic and breeches hugged his frame. "I'm... going to die..."

"You can't die," Lautrec explained. He picked up his chest piece, stepped to the archway, and flipped it outside with a flick of his wrist. A second later, the sound of an arrow head _pinging_ off the gold filled the air. Lautrec slipped outside, became a blurry vision within the blizzard, and then disappeared entirely.

Patches came clambering up the ladder with the witch slung over his shoulder a few moments later. He scrambled behind the stone wall just in time; another arrow loosed and bit the wall behind them.

"Bastard!" Patches growled, setting the witch down beside Abby. "Shoots at _me_!?" He cupped his hands around his mouth and stepped beside the archway. "Kill that sneaky prick, Lautrec! Kill him _good_!"

"...dying..." Abby managed to whisper through her choked coughing. "Shot... me..."

"Quiet, girl, ya ain't dyin'," Patches explained. "You're the bloody Chosen One."

The witch lowered herself to her knees beside Abby and peered out at her from within her hood. Abby shivered, though she wasn't sure if it was from the cold, the wound, or the witch's gaze. The witch reached forward the best she could with her arms all wrapped up and took hold of Abby's left hand in between her own. Abby was amazed at how warm her skin felt as the witch rubbed her fingers into her palm. She closed her eyes and relaxed, suddenly not finding it nearly as hard to do so.

Somewhere outside, a scream sounded. It was not the knight's.

"Ha-_ha_! He got the bastard!" Patches cheered.

A few moments later, Lautrec returned. Abby saw, through her dimming vision, that he dragged a body along behind him.

Patches eyes landed on the body and his mouth fell agape. "What the hell... how is that possible?"

Abby looked. The archer _was_ hollow. She'd been right. He was hollow and dressed in well-oiled leathers, boots on his feet, gloves on his hands, a quiver of arrows slung to his back. More importantly, though, he was alive.

Lautrec shook his head. "There's two of them."

"_Two_ Chosen Ones?" Patches snapped. "That don't sound a little funny to you?"

"Look at him!" Lautrec said. "He's dressed like a man. He was far more accurate with that bow then any regular hollow could have _dreamed _of aspiring to. He's a Chosen One. Or perhaps... he's _the _Chosen One." The knights eyes flicked to Abby. "And _she's_ not."

Abby winced and clutched at her wound. Patches eyes went from her to the archer and back. "This... doesn't make any sense."

"It will soon enough," the knight explained. "She's dying from that wound, and _he's_ dying from _my_ wound. We get them to the bonfire. Then we find out who lives... and who dies."

With that, the bald man took Abby in his arms, lifted, and carried her beneath the stone archway and into the blizzard. Lautrec dragged the dying hollow along beside them by the collar of his tunic. The witch came slowly behind them, and Abby saw with a sense of great wonder that wherever the witch's feet fell, the snow began to melt and die around her.

They crossed the short distance to an unlit bonfire, resting forlorn and forgotten amidst the swirling white chaos of the blizzard. Abby was placed beside it, the other hollow was dropped next to her, and Lautrec went and fetched the witch by her binds.

"Light it," he commanded, leading her beside the bonfire.

The witch's head turned to him, but Abby could see his gray eyes were narrowed on the dead wood set before him. The witch looked back at the flames, lifted her pale hands as high as the ropes would allow, and angled her palms at the bonfire, fingers spread.

"Wait," Lautrec haulted her, reached down, and plucked two twigs from the bonfire. "Alright, witch. Go on."

Abby's vision had dimmed to a narrow, shadowy, tunnel by then, but what she saw did not cease to amaze her. Red and orange flames birthed right out of the woman's hands, lashed at the air, and settled on the bonfire, blazing it immediately. The warm glow felt soothing on Abby's hollow cheeks.

"Here," Lautec said, crouching beside her. He stuck one of the pieces of wood in her frail, weak, hand. She clutched it the best she could and closed her eyes. "_No_. Awake, girl. Throw that into the flame."

"...flame..." Abby croaked.

"Do it now!" Lautrec demanded, and fueled by fear of his shouts alone, she meekly tossed the twig into the fire with the last of her strength. "Good," the knight said, standing. "Now you, boy. If you can still hear me, that is."

Abby listened as the other hollow hissed some quiet words. She wasn't sure if he'd taken the wood or not, because she no longer had the strength to hold her eyes open. She felt snow on her face, on her cheeks, and wasn't sure if the wetness there was the snowfall or her own tears. The witch must have taken her hand again, because she felt warmth there. There was a moment where it became apparent to Abby that she was dying.

And then she was dead.


	4. Chapter 4

As the hollow boy and girl died lying in the snow, Quelana watched curiously from within the shadow of her hooded robes. If the knight had been correct about the trip in the crow's talons away from Lordran, the cell in the basement of the asylum that housed his 'Chosen', _and_ the rebirth from the flames upon death... even Quelana would have to begin to doubt her uncertainty with him. She turned to look at him then, as the young ones took their final breaths, and saw his gray eyes were wide and housed a boyish excitement as he stared into the bonfire. Quelana looked back and where the hollow bodies once lay, only two empty trenches of snow remained.

The fire rose, red flames licking at the sky and searing the snowfall above. The sight of it... the _warmth_ of it... it brought Quelana a peace she hadn't felt since the knight had stolen her away from Blighttown. Then, from within the fire, figures formed in ghastly, ethereal, tones. One moment they were smoke, the next they were ghosts, then they were the flames themselves.

Finally, they had returned.

"_Two_ Chosen..." Patches muttered beside her. "I don't believe it."

"This is change," Lautrec said, nodding. "This is _good_."

The young man and woman seemed frozen in place for a moment, and Quelana thought them paralyzed. Then their eyes blinked and their mouths moved and soon enough they were peering around the asylum in a dazed wonder. The knight moved quickly to the side of the male hollow, unsheathed one of his shotels, and threw the boy to the ground.

"Hey!" The hollow cried out, but the knight was quick to follow up his attack by pinning his knee over the boy's chest. "What's happening!? Am I... dead?"

"You can't die," Lautrec told him. "Same as _her, _though it didn't stop you from trying."

The hollow girl he nodded to, Abby, was staring at her own hands, turning them over with a stunned look plastered to her face.

"Now answer me this: Who am I?" Lautrec demanded. "My gold armor, do you know of it?"

"What-? I don't understand what's happening!?" The boy shouted, squirming beneath the knight's knee. "I killed her!" He looked at Abby, then back to Lautrec. "And _you_ killed me! Why are we still-"

"Be quiet and answer me," the knight interrupted. "Do you want my ring? My armor? What's my name?"

"I don't _know_! Get _off _me!"

"If you lie to me, I can't kill you, but I know plenty of ways to make a man hurt," Lautrec warned. "One more time, and think _hard_ on it: What's - my - name?"

The hollow peered up at the knight for a long while then. Finally he said, "I - don't - know!"

"I'm alive..." Abby was whispering. "I'm not even... injured?"

Lautrec removed his knee from the boy's chest and stood. He looked upon the hollow for a moment before offering his hand. The boy hesitantly took it and Lautrec yanked him to his feet. "Either we have a pair of very good liars on our hands, or the two of them are fresh Chosen." He scratched at the stubble on his chin. "That's... interesting."

"Who the hell _are_ you people?" The boy demanded, rubbing the spot on his back where Lautrec had wounded and killed him not a few minutes earlier.

"Do you always shoot first and ask questions later?" Lautrec asked, picking up the hollow's bow and handing it back to him. "You know, _I _am not quite as lucky as the girl you hit there. If I took that blow... you would have killed me."

"I was _trying_ to kill you!" The boy protested. "The whole lot of you! I thought you were... well, _hollow_."

"Like yourself?"

"I'm not like the other hollows," the boy snapped.

"Well, you're at least right about that. And your name?" The knight asked.

"Benjamin," the boy answered. His eyes flicked across the rest of the party, landing on Quelana only long enough for him to grimace with fear. "Who are _they_?"

"I am the knight Lautrec of Carim," Lautrec introduced himself before standing and gesturing to Patches. "This is my... _friend_, Patches."

Patches nodded and couldn't help a little giggle from escaping his lips.

"My _witch_, Quelana," Lautrec continued. "You'll forgive her silence, I'm sure."

Quelana bit down on the gag in her mouth and glared at the knight from within her hood.

"A _witch_!?" Benjamin echoed, his brow scrunching up. "You travel with a witch!?"

"I do," Lautrec told him. "A _powerful_ one, as well. Just stay away from her hands and tongue, and you should be fine." He turned to the hollow girl. "And this is... Abby, was it?"

The girl still look bewildered as she nodded.

"She's like you," Lautrec told him. "_Chosen_, that is."

"Chosen for what?"

"A good question," Lautrec admitted. "One we will, hopefully, find an answer for."

Benjamin looked up at the snowfall. The blizzard had subsided a bit, but the winds were still howling above. "Why did you ask if I knew your name?"

"I wanted to see if you were fresh," Lautrec explained. "Or if this was a repeat journey for you."

Ben's eyes narrowed on the knight. "You make no sense."

"Little does here," Lautrec said, gestured for Patches to come beside him, and began fishing something out from within the sack the bald man wore on his back. "Now, I expect cooperation from the both of you, less you wind up in ropes like the witch there. As a friendly gesture of our new alliance, I offer you this."

The knight pulled, delicately, from the bag two strange, black, shapes. Quelana took a step closer to try and make out what they were. The things he held were formless one moment, and solid the next. There was a queer humming coming from them, and white streaks moved about their ebony surfaces like ripples in water.

"What _is_ it?" Abby asked, clutching her hands to her chest.

"It's what's going to remove the plague from your flesh," Lautrec told her. "Drown the emptiness from your stomachs. Return the life to your eyes." He extended a hand to each of them. "This is the tangible form of Humanity."

Benjamin was quick to take the odd, solid/liquid, lump. He turned it over in his hands, nearly letting it slip through his fingers. The girl was more hesitant, so Lautrec moved forward and pressed it to her chest, forcing her to take hold of it before it fell.

"What do we _do_ with it?" Abby questioned.

"Offer it to the flames," Lautrec explained. "And remove the sickness that death has laid upon you."

"That's knight-talk for 'you'll be human again'," Patches added.

This time, the girl was first to act. As soon as Patches uttered the word 'human' she stepped before the bonfire, cradled the humanity in her hands, and hovered them over the flames. Benjamin moved beside her and did the same. Quelana had heard her pupils talk of this ritual before, but she had never seen it performed, and so she watched with great interest; never lacking astonishment for the myriad of powers that fire harnessed within it.

The 'sickness', as Lautrec had called it, began washing away immediately. The gray and dying flesh of their arms and necks and faces took on color, the black pits of their eyes faded away in exchange for pretty blue pupils for the girl, deep brown ones for the boy. As the humanity spread through them, Quelana noted that the two could have been brother and sister. They were both of similar height, though Ben was a tad taller. Both had chestnut brown hair; the girl's falling to her shoulders in soft waves; the boy's short and unkempt. They both looked young, maybe no older than twenty one. Even their reactions were similar: they looked at their hands, at each other, smiled.

"I don't believe it!" Abby shouted, swiping the moisture from the corners of her eyes. "I'm... not a monster!"

"Not until you die again," Lautrec told her.

Ben's brow wrinkled. "What does _that_ mean?"

"We'll deal with it when the time comes," Lautrec said, looking skyward. "We've been here long, though, and night will soon fall. I'd rather not be in the Undead Asylum when it does. We have to move." He lowered his gaze and fixed it on Ben. "One more thing, though. How exactly did _you_ escape your cell?"

"Another knight," the boy admitted, scratching at the back of his neck. "Though his armor certainly wasn't gold. I don't know why he did it, but... he's dead now. Threw me a key down the hole in my cell's ceiling, laid down, gave me a few flasks and another key, and... well, just died."

Lautrec nodded. "Sounds about right." He turned to the big door across the courtyard and held a hand up to shield his brow from the snowfall. "I've heard of this part of the journey many times over. A great beast awaits us behind those doors."

"A beast?" Abby questioned.

"A _demon_, I suppose is a better description of what the creature is," Lautrec corrected. "The _Asylum_ demon."

"How could you know all these things!?" Abby asked. The girl ran a hand through her hair and swallowed. "I mean... are you... are you a God or something?"

Lautrec grinned. "Unfortunately not. _You_ might be, though." He looked at Benjamin. "One of you... both of you... neither... who can say, really?"

"_I_ could be a God?" Abby said, staring back into the flames.

"A doubtful little thing for a God, ain't she?" Patches teased. "Are we going to get moving or what? You know what they say: Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a _banana_! Hee-Hee!"

"I'm ready," Benjamin said. "I've spent enough time in this place to last me a lifetime... or _two_ I suppose, in my case."

"Hee-hee! That's the spirit!" Patches cheered and clapped him on the shoulder.

Lautrec crossed the bonfire and stepped before Quelana. She turned her head to avoid his piercing gray eyes. His hand fell on her arm and squeezed. "Look, witch, I know you're not happy with me for all I've done, but the reality is that there might be a mighty foe awaiting us on the other side of those doors. I kidnapped you so you could help us _survive_ such encounters. I need to know you're on my side here."

Quelana stared into the bonfire, ignoring the knight, wondering what cruel game he was playing talking to her when she could not speak a reply.

"Hey," he said, twisting at her arm so she had to face him.

Quelana grunted and wrestled free of his grip, but her robes caught beneath her heel and without the use of her hands to steady herself, she tumbled backwards and fell, landing in a tuft of snow that sizzled and turned to water around her almost instantly. Her hood had fallen away, and so she laid there uselessly, snow dropping and melting away on her face, glaring up at the knight hovering over her.

"You need help with the witch, Lautrec?" Patches asked.

The knight's eyes held on hers. "No... go on to the door. I need a word with her."

Patches nodded, picked up what little gear they carried, and led the two young ones through the snow. When they were alone, Lautrec crouched beside her. Quelana stared at the man, wondering if she could ignite him without catching her own robes on fire.

Lautrec grinned. "A fire burns even in your _eyes_, witch."

She made flames rise to her fingertips.

The knight's grin widened as he looked down at her hands, then back to her. "If I remove that muzzle of yours... will you bewitch me? Put me under your spell?"

Quelana only glared.

Lautrec looked back at the rest of them waiting at the doors. "I suppose I can risk it," he said, leaned in so he could get his hands behind her head, and untied the gag.

The cloth came from between her teeth, and Quelana licked at her lips. She stared up at the man, doing her best to control her anger. "I'll light your bonfires but I will _never_ stand beside you in combat," she snapped. "May the demon slay you for your sins. ...pathetic knight."

Lautrec shook his head, but his grin remained. "You're displaying an excellent example of why I should keep you gagged for the remainder of our journey."

"Go ahead and gag me," Quelana told him. "I have nothing to say to you _or_ your 'companions'. You're on a pointless quest that will only end in failure and death and horror. As all things do."

"As your _sisters_ did?"

The knight's words took Quelana by surprise. She recoiled as if struck by a blow, then her anger took over and she opened her mouth to shout at the knight-

-but he held the gag up and shook his head, and she closed it once more, regaining her composure and continuing in a quiet voice.

"How _dare_ you speak of my sisters... you know _nothing_ of-"

"I know enough," Lautrec interrupted. "I know the Chaos that took Izalith took _them_ as well. Deformed them. Made monsters of them. I know _you_ were the only one to escape." He paused, glancing up at the sky. "Witch, look around us. Whatever I've done by coming here, I _have_ already changed things. This weather, the cold... the pair of Chosen that _you_ yourself saw reborn in the fire upon death." He looked back down at her. "Who knows what changes await us in Lordran. What changes may have befallen the inhabitants. ...befallen your _sisters_."

"You..." she began, but then the weight of his words sunk in and she her mind turned to them. The faces of her sisters before the chaos flashed across her mind; pretty, youthful, faces yet untainted by the plague of destruction that had twisted them. "It's not possible," she whispered, shaking the foolish thought from her head. "What's done is done."

"But might yet be _un_done," Lautrec added. "I'll make you this deal, witch: Aid me against my foes, and I swear to you I'll take you to Izalith. Take you to your sisters. And then we'll see what changes I have made in this cruel world of ours."

"What good is the promise of a forsaken knight?" Quelana questioned.

"I've forsaken no knightly vows, witch," Lautrec explained. "The vows I took... I've fulfilled them all. And will continue to do so. Now do we have a deal?"

Quelana weighed her options, saw no gain in refusing the fool, and set her eyes upon him. For a brief moment, she saw the faces of her sisters again, but closed her eyes and they were gone. The chance that coming here had somehow saved them from the monsters they'd become was small... but it was a chance. "Fine. We have a deal. Return me to Izalith, and... my fire will destroy your enemies."

Lautrec's hands took hold of her shoulders and he pulled her to her feet. "Good," he said, pulling the hood back up over her head. "Now try your best not to bewitch any of my fellow travelers and keep the 'pathetic knight' insults to a minimum and I won't have to gag you."

Quelana held the man's eyes for a moment before nodding and stepping beside him. They headed across the courtyard and met with the rest at the doors to the asylum.

"Lautrec, I can't hear a damned thing behind here," Patches said, his ear pressed to the doors. "You sure there's supposed to be some big bastard demon behind it?"

"Positive," Lautrec answered. "Ready yourselves."

"What do _I_ do?" Abby asked. The girl looked terrified in her white and red cleric robes, a mace loosely clutched in her right hand, a ratty-looking talisman hanging from her left.

"You cast miracles?" Lautrec asked.

The girl looked at her talisman, licked her lips, nodded. "Not well," she admitted, color flushing her cheeks.

Lautrec and Patches shared a look. "Maybe just... hang back on this one."

The girl nodded, looking relieved.

Benjamin pulled an arrow from his quiver and stepped beside them. "_I'm_ ready. What's there to fear? We can't die."

"_You_ can't die," Patches corrected. "_We_ can."

"So fight good," Lautrec said, placed his palms on the doors, and pushed.

The steel bottoms of the doors ground the stone floor as they opened, sending a loud, echoing, _tear_ booming into the chamber inside. A rush of foul, cold, air swept out from within as Lautrec muscled the doors open wide enough for himself to walk through. Quelana followed behind him, Patches behind _her_, and the Chosen came last. The room was a large, high-ceilinged, chamber that might have once been a church or a cathedral. The walls were haggard and crumbling apart, the floor as well, and a hole in the ceiling was allowing a stream of light and snow to tumble in from the corner.

"Gods save us..." Patches muttered, he had shouldered past Quelana quickly and stepped deeper into the room.

"What the hell..." Lautrec said.

Quelana stepped around the tall bald man and looked to see what they were so baffled by.

"What have we done..." Patches whispered.

At the other end of the chamber, a massive lump was spread out on the floor. Quelana squinted, allowing the thing to focus before she realized that whatever it was: it was alive. Or at least _trying_ to be alive. It had a little head atop a massive, rounded, body, and from the temple came an enormous tumor that set the demon off balance, causing its head to droop to one side as it laid there, groaning. Quelana saw, with horror, that the thing had _three_ arms protruding from its swollen body, but one of the three hadn't fully developed. It was small and weaker than the others and grasping at the ground, trying to pull the monster to its feet. Blood and puss was pooled around its face, and she saw dark red rivets trailing from the monsters nose. A black tongue protruded from its lip, licking at the blood as the demon's eyes rolled back into its head, forward again, and then darted side to side aimlessly.

"What is that thing?" Abby's small, frightened, voice came from behind them.

Patches turned to Lautrec. "There's your 'Asylum Demon', huh?" The bald man looked back to the creature. "Don't suppose none of them Chosen ever mentioned it was a deformed, crippled, monster with a tumor, huh?"

"We... changed things," Lautrec said, stepping forward.

The demon moaned a pathetic sound and its little arm began swinging again. Its eyes landed on the knight, but holding focus seemed to cause the thing pain, and so its head shook and more blood spat from its nose. The tumor protruding from its head struck the ground as it did and the creature howled a shrill, excruciating, scream.

The five of them stood there watching in silence as its eyes rolled and its tongue lashed and its head shook until finally Lautrec turned to Quelana and said, "Burn that thing, witch. Burn it and send it back to the hell it came from."

"_You_ did this," Quelana said. "You wanted to change things and so you have. You never considered you'd be changing them for the _worse_. My sisters..." She thought of them writhing in pain as the demon was now and it made her physically ill. "What have you _done_?"

"Burn it," he insisted. "If not by my command, then do it to end the thing's suffering."

She looked back to the creature. It was pathetically trying to pull itself closer to them, but had neither the strength nor the understanding that only one of its three arms were moving. She turned to the knight, and the two stared at each other. Lautrec stepped aside.

"Maybe we can help it..." Abby whispered.

"Don't be foolish, it's already dead," Ben told her. "It just... it just doesn't know it yet."

"Go on and do your thing, witch," Patches said. "I don't want to hear it wail no more."

Quelana looked from the three of them to Lautrec then finally to the demon. She stepped towards it slowly, raising her bound hands as high as the ropes would allow, palms outward, and sending the flames circling her fingers. The creature's eyes fell upon her as she crossed the cathedral and it groaned and lurched its head at her, the tumor striking the ground once again and provoking a hideous shriek from the things black and bloody lips. The flames around her fingers spread to her palms and blazed higher. The demon's jaw moved up and down, a sound that might have been a whine escaping it.

Quelana stepped before it, just out of its grasping, under-developed, arm, and looked upon the beast. Up close to the monster, an incredible sadness took her heart, and she was once again reminded of the chaos the befell her sisters. The flames rose higher still around her hands and she whispered one word to the demon below them, "Rest."

Streams of red and orange pillars of flame erupted from her palms, encased the monster's entire body and head, and seared its flesh. The shrieks it had roared before were nothing compared to the howl of its dying breaths. Quelana had made the flames hot, though, and the demon was silent almost as quickly as it had screamed.

When it was finished, only the large and smoldering corpse of the monster remained before her; black and charred and very much dead.

Lautrec stepped beside her and looked upon the demon. He prodded its head with the toe of his boot to test its state of being. "You did well."

Quelana turned to him. "Don't patronize me, knight. I know fire. That was a simple task." She looked at the blackened head of the demon. "The question is, what other 'changes' have you caused back in Lordran by coming here. What other monstrosities await us?"

Lautrec stared at the beast for a long time before quietly saying, "I suppose we'll find out soon enough."

And with that, he gathered the rest of them, led them from the cathedral and back into the blizzard, up a short, stony, hill, and to the crow's perch. The great bird could be seen in the distance, a black hulking figure in the white chaos of the snow, and it was coming.

To what new land it was taking them, Quelana did not know.


	5. Chapter 5

Atop the eastern tower of the Duke's Archives, Solaire stood gazing at the shadowy, white and blue remnant of the sun; a cold wind blowing from the dark ruins of Anor Londo, sending his Sun Cloak rippling out behind him. His eyes grew rheumy between his helm's eyeslits. He longed for the golden rays of light to pour from the heavens once more. He longed to feel the Sun's warmth; to drink in its glory; to battle beneath its watchful, protective, eye. Yet he knew it was a fool's hope-at least until Logan made further progress in his studies-and that the Great Cold that had swept across Lordran like a plague was all that awaited him atop the tower. It's all that _ever_ awaited him anymore. Still, he came to watch; to _hope_. Hope was the last warm thing left in Lordran.

"Knight Solaire," the voice of his squire came from over his shoulder. The boy stepped beside him, bowed, and stood at attention, awaiting reply.

"What is it, Henrik?" Solaire answered, his eyes lingering on the dead husk of pale light in the sky.

"The Marvelous Chester has returned with word from the South," Henrik explained. "He is requesting to speak directly to Logan."

Solaire finally turned on the boy, frowning beneath his helm. "He knows no one speaks to Logan," and upon further reflection, "What's happened?"

His squire shrugged. "He asked for Logan, no more. I came to you, as instructed. He awaits answer in the main hall."

"Good, Henrik. You were wise not to disturb Logan," Solaire said, holding his tongue before he added, _you would have feared what you found_. "I'll speak with Chester immediately."

The boy nodded, bowed, and disappeared back down the spiraling staircase he'd come from. Solaire turned back to the blue sun once more, bowed to it as reverently as his squire had done to he, and followed.

He came upon the 'marvelous' Chester pacing the main hall of the Archives, hands clasped behind his back, and snickering to himself as he looked from painting to painting. Solaire eyed the man up as he approached down the library staircase, scoffing at his attire. The man was a warrior, of sorts, and Solaire was under the impression that all warriors should dawn themselves in the heaviest plate they could afford without restricting movement. Yet there Chester stood in his dirty, dark, long coat and leather trousers. His 'helmet' was a flimsy top hat with the mask of a jester dropping from its brow to hide the man's face. When Solaire had first met him, he'd thought painted, grinning mask _was_ his face.

Chester turned to Solaire upon hearing his approach, the jester's mouth of his mask taunting the knight as he spoke. "I ask for the great wizard, and I am brought his lapdog. A shame."

"Watch your tongue, Chester," Solaire warned as he stepped to ground level and walked beside the man.

"Bit hard to watch one's tongue, isn't it? The wretched things are always slithering around between our lips," Chester spoke softly from behind his mask. "Some more wretched than others, of course." He laughed.

"On that we can agree," Solaire said, fixing the man with a stern look. "What news do you bring from the South? What is the Hollow Army doing?"

Chester shrugged, his gaze turning back to the paintings on the wall. "What the Hollow Army always does. Sitting around. Grunting. Groaning. Picking their balls, or at least the place their balls used to hang. Heh."

"Don't waste my time. You asked for Logan. This must be important."

Chester made a sound beneath his mask that might have been disappointment. "Yes. Right to business as usual, ey Solaire? How _does_ one fit such a large stick up their ass with so much damned _metal_ covering it?"

A flush of anger rose in Solaire's cheeks. If the man before him hadn't been the best spy they had, he'd have considered unsheathing his straight sword and challenging the fool to a duel right there in the main hall.

Chester laughed. "Relax, knight. I bring two pieces of news from the South. The first," he turned, strolled partially down the hall, and plucked a bound and hooded prisoner from a bench beside the wall. "Is _this_. The second... well, the _second _is why I wanted to speak to Logan personally."

Solaire fixed his eyes upon the man's prisoner. The captive was short and garnished in tattered and dingy gray robes. "Who is he?"

"_She_ is Logan's precious 'firekeeper' he was so intent on meeting. Hadn't he informed his favorite dog?" Chester taunted.

"You bind and hood a _woman_ like this?" Solaire snapped indignantly. "Have you no honor? Release her!"

Chester shrugged. "She's Logan's now. Release her if you wish, I was looking out for myself." He took the woman by the elbow and shoved her forward.

Solaire caught her and pulled the hood from the woman's head immediately. "My apologies madam," he spoke as it was removed. The woman beneath did not appear as he'd expected for a fabled and legendary firekeeper. She was young with a healthy complexion and soft, blue, eyes. Her hair, strawberry blond and clean, was pulled back into a bun behind her head. She set her eyes on Solaire and swallowed. She seemed afraid. "You have nothing to fear now, m'lady. I am the Knight Solaire, Warrior of the Sun. You are in good hands."

"If it was conversation Logan was looking for, he's in for some disappointment," Chester said. He brought his finger to the mouth of his mask and tapped. "No tongue on that one."

"Oh," Solaire said, embarrassed. He offered the woman a sympathetic smile. "My apologies, m'lady. I... I ensure you your treatment thus far has not been ordered by myself or my superior, Logan. Perhaps I can offer you something to eat? Drink? Your travels must have-"

"Do you wish the woman to want her _ears_ removed as well, Solaire?" Chester taunted. "She's not hungry. I offered on our travels plenty. I'm no monster. She's a _firekeeper_. The flames are their nourishment. Offer her a torch if you insist on being so obnoxiously knightly."

Solaire glared at the man and balled his fist, but held his tongue before the lady. He forced his words with amicability. "The second piece of news, Chester, and then be on your way."

"I want to talk to Logan."

"No."

Chester folded his arms across his chest. "How long do you think the men within these walls will continue to take orders from a leader they can not see? They grow restless, knight. We've gathered nearly a hundred strong, and yet we sit and wait, day after day as this infernal cold grows deeper and _colder _and our enemies amass outside our walls. Logan _must_ reveal himself."

"Logan is studying," Solaire said, and it was a partial truth. What he held back from the man was the fact that Logan was also most likely losing his mind. "He is working on a way to _fix_ this infernal cold."

"Do you know what the men are saying?" Chester asked, shifting his weight and causing the crossbow slung across his back to sway from side to side. "Some say Logan is dead. Some say _you_ killed him. ...some say he's fled Lordran, given up, headed for higher ground. _Warmer_ ground."

"I assure you he's here," Solaire said, growing impatient. "But I can say no more. He will formulate a plan to counter the Hollow Army and reverse the Great Cold soon enough. Do not doubt the man's genius. You forget it was _he _who slaid the scaleless monstrosity that roamed this keep and took it for himself. Twas _he _who began taken refugees from the cold. Give him time."

"He's got less _time_ than you think, knight," Chester said. "_Mutiny _is in the air. All it will take is one bold man to step forth and snatch it up."

"Is that man you?" Solaire asked, letting his hand fall to the hilt of his sheathed straight sword.

Chester looked at it and laughed. "Not today, knight."

"Then tell me the other news. I will bring the information to Logan immediately."

Chester sighed, hesitated, but eventually spoke, "The crow has taken flight from Lordran."

Solaire's mouth fell agape beneath his helm. "_What_?"

A snicker came from Chester's mask. "That's right. The crow flies once again. I saw it with mine own two eyes. I would have liked to inform Logan of such a wonder myself, but... I suppose his _dog _will suffice. Yes, the crow flies. And perhaps the answer to our suffering will lie in the beast's talons upon its return. If it ever _does_ return."

"And you threatened to _withhold_ this information!?" Solaire snapped. "I should behead you here and now for such treason!"

Chester laughed. "Go run to your owner, dog. Make sure to tell him it was the Marvelous Chester who delivered the news." He faced the blond woman and bowed. "Farewell for now... _m'lady_," he said with a final snicker, turned, and sauntered away.

Solaire watched him go, shaking his head. He despised men like Chester, and under normal circumstances he'd never fight beside them. Since the cold, though, the circumstances had become anything but normal. He became aware the woman was staring at him and chuckled nervously beneath his helm. "Apologies, m'lady. Here, let me see your wrists." He unsheathed his sword, taking note of the way the woman's eyes widened apprehensively as he did, and cut loose her binds. "There you are. I would never treat a lady like that man who brought you here, I assure you. I wish we had sent someone else in his place, but the roads are growing more dangerous to travel by, and he is, unfortunately, a master of remaining hidden."

The woman only stared.

Solaire's cheeks flushed beneath his helm when he remembered once again she had no tongue. "Ah, yes, well... er, I suppose Logan would like to see you. I'm sure once he speaks to you, he'll afford you a hot bath and anything else you so desire. Come, m'lady," he said and stuck his elbow out. The blonde woman look at it as if she'd never seen the gesture before, so Solaire leaned in and placed her arm around it, smiled, and led her off towards the prison.

The prison tower at the eastern wing of the Archives was, unfortunately, where Logan had set up his chambers. Solaire detested the tower. It was filled with the marks and scars of pain and suffering on every cold brick laid in its cylindrical walls. The massive staircase spiraling down to the ground floor where Logan resided was no short trek either, and by the time Solaire had gone up or down them, he was always winded and gasping beneath his helm. As the knight walked the firekeeper to the top of the ladder and assisted her onto the first rung that would take them to the stairs, he noted how queer the walls played with the sound of their footsteps; as if they weren't sure how to echo the noise. It gave the whole, chilly, dark, chamber a haunted feel that Solaire did not care for.

He joined the woman at the bottom of the ladder, took her arm up in his own once more, and began the long, winding, descent to Logan. He spoke to the firekeeper as they walked, "Logan uses this old prison as his study chamber, m'lady, I assure you you are no prisoner here. The man is... he is an eccentric, you see. His mind is brilliant, and as with most brilliant things, works in funny ways. Don't fear him, though. He is a good man. The Duke's Archives were captured by him. Once the cold began settling over Lordran, the men and women of the realm sought out refuge. Logan welcomed them all with open arms. It is... comical, in a way. It took a great _cold_ to bring together the forces of man. The cold and the hollows, of course, but I'm sure you know of the Hollow Army."

The firekeeper's face remained frozen in an expression of fear and concern, and so Solaire went on. "Eh-hem, well, um... I recall Logan mentioning you were locked in a cell burrowed into the earth. Perhaps you do _not_ know of the Hollow Army. Well, you see, some time after the cold began setting in, the hollows began fleeing to Anor Londo. All of them. They... they skinned and killed all men in their path. Now the rumors are that there are _hundreds_ camped within the walls of the great chapel there. Wretched things that they are. Have no fear, though, m'lady. Once Logan is through studying, he will tell us what our next move is and we will sweep across the hollow's like a mighty ray of sunlight washing away the darkness."

He turned on the woman, chest raised and beaming, and awaited a reaction. She offered none, and so he walked on the rest of the way in slightly disappointed silence.

At the ground level, at the very back of the tower, piles and piles of books stacked to the height of three grown men standing on each other's shoulders awaited them. Some books were spilling off mounds of tomes to the sides, their pages open and ripped. More books laid across the floor, covers peeled back and an assortment of pages laid side by side in, what Solaire assumed, was some order of importance. Scrolls rested against the walls. Ledgers tumbled from the large wooden desk in the center of it all, though even _that_ was buried in a sea of white paper. A dozen candles surrounded the study, and Solaire found it a near miracle that something hadn't caught fire and the whole _thing_ had gone up in flames. "Logan," he called into the pile of books. "Are you the-"

A crystal golem came lumbering around one particularly high stack of books, the candelight dancing of the creature's blue, metallic, body.

The firekeeper beside him made a startled sound from her tongueless mouth and jerked at Solaire's elbow. He caught her and put a hand to her shoulder, "Apologies again, m'lady. I should have warned you. This... _thing_ is Logan's pet." He turned back to the golem and nodded, though Solaire himself never grew comfortable with the idea that the monster had just show up at the gates of the Archives one day and began following Logan's command. There was a wickedness about the creature.

The golem ignored them and lumbered off towards the staircase, each of its footfalls seeming to shake the whole tower itself.

"Solaire?" Logan's deep, wise, voice came spilling from behind a tower of books. A moment later, the man himself emerged from within the shadows; the candlelight flickering across his dark robes, his face illuminated softly in the flame beneath his massive, wide-brimmed, hat. "My friend."

Solaire nodded. "How goes your studying, Logan? Have you made any breakthroughs?"

"I fear not, brave Knight of the Sun," Logan answered, stepping around his desk and approaching them. His eyes, though it was hard to discern in the shadow of his hat, moved to the woman. "My firekeeper?"

"Yes," said Solaire. "I fear the woman has no tongue, however. Chester delivered her not but a few moments ago."

Logan suddenly lifted his head to stare up at the top of the tower. Solaire looked away. He was used to these little moments of... zoning out that Logan had. He supposed genius came with its costs. When the man in the big hat finally looked back to them, he was smiling. "My firekeeper."

"Yes... no tongue, though. Chester delivered her," Solaire repeated.

"No tongue?" Logan echoed, pouting his lips. "Sad."

After a few moments of silence, Solaire realized he was expected to say something. "Ah, yes. It is quite sad. Poor girl. Chester had her bound and hooded for their journey."

"Mmm, sad," Logan said again and stepped nearer to the woman. "Open your mouth, my lady."

The woman recoiled from Logan and looked helplessly towards Solaire. Solaire nodded his head and rubbed at her back. "It's alright. He won't hurt you. He just wants to see."

"See," Logan agreed.

Slowy, and through trembling lips, the woman opened her mouth. Logan leaned in to loom over her and narrowed his eyes within the darkness of her gaping mouth. "Mmm, yes. No tongue on this one. We will drink to it."

"D-Drink?" Solaire stammered.

Logan moved behind a pile of books without reply and returned a moment later carrying a bronze chalice. Solaire peaked inside and saw a red wine swaying within. "Here, my lady," Logan said, a smile creeping up his face. "Drink and your troubles shall vanish."

Again, the woman looked to Solaire. He offered his kindest smile and nodded his approval. She looked back to Logan, fixed her eyes on the chalice fearfully, and took it in her shaking hands.

"Drink," Logan urged.

The firekeeper hesitated, glanced one final time at Solaire, and brought the cup to her lips. Her blond head tilted back and the red wine within funneled into her tongueless mouth.

Finished, Solaire took the cup from her hands and handed it back to Logan. "There we are, m'lady. You see? Tis only a bit of wine for a weary traveler."

"Well..." Logan said, his head cocking to the side. "Tis a bit _more_ than that."

Solaire frowned and opened his mouth to question what meaning Logan's words held, but the firekeepers fingers digging into his arm cut him short. He spun to face her and saw the woman's face was wracked with pain, her hands clutching at her throat, choked noised gurgling from her lips. "Logan!" He shouted. "What have you done!?"

"Mmm," Logan hummed, stepping beside the girl as she choked. "Poisoned her."

"By the _Gods_, why!?" Solaire snapped. The woman fell to the ground and Solaire went with her, cradling her head in his lap as she collapsed.

"Do not speak of the Gods here, Solaire," Logan said, his voice taking on a sudden acridity. "They have no place in my study. They are cruel beasts and their time draws near."

"She's dying..." Solaire said as the woman stopped choking. An odd flash of peace came over her face as her eyes closed to slits and a faint smile spread across her lips. Then the eyes closed, the mouth with them, and the tongueless firekeeper was no more. "You've... killed an innocent."

"No one is innocent," Logan corrected, kneeling beside them. "Let her body go. Watch as one of the few miracles left in this wretched, cold, world takes place."

Solaire swallowed his anger and did as the man instructed. As her body left his arms, it dissolved into the dingy robes around her; as if the robes themselves had drank her corpse up. A warm light came upon Solaire's cheeks as he peered into the robes central mass, where a shining soul had birthed.

"The soul of a firekeeper," Logan spoke, quiet and reverent. "I've only ever seen one in my life. This is the second. It's... beautiful, isn't it?"

The light danced in Solaire's eyes, transfixing him, alluring him, paralyzing him. "Y-yes," he stammered. "It's... incredible."

"A crueler man would use the soul to imbue his alchemy with newfound power," Logan went on. "But we aren't cruel men, are we Solaire?"

"N-No."

"We are good men, aren't we?"

"Yes."

Logan nodded. "Then what _we_ good men shall do with the woman's soul is..." He reached his arms over the lump of robes, cupped his hands, and rested his palms atop the soul. He smiled as he applied pressure downwards, and Solaire watched with astonished wonder as it sunk right back into the robes themselves.

Then she returned.

"Praise the sun," Solaire whispered.

The woman's pretty face appeared within the robes, then her hands, feet, and soon enough her whole figure was there once more. Her blue eyes flickered open once, twice, and then held. She stared, confused, at Solaire, then Logan, then the ceiling.

"Death has a funny way of rejuvenating a person," Logan said, the smile still on his face. "Speak, woman, for my hands have healing powers." And with that, he touched his hands to her cheeks.

She opened her mouth, her eyes locked on Logan's, and tried forming a word.

"Go on," he urged. "Speak. You can do it."

"La..." she uttered. "Lau..."

Solaire was stunned. "By the Gods she's _healed_."

"I told you not to speak of _them_. This is no work of Gods," Logan said. "This is _my_ work." He looked back to the woman. "What is your name, firekeeper?"

"Please..." she said, her voice was tiny and frail as it whispered through her chapped lips. "I do not wish to speak. I do not wish to _live_. I have a wicked tongue. Please, I-"

"There will be no more talk of that," Logan interrupted her. "I've given you second life, my sweet lady, do not make me regret it with such dark words. I asked your name, now, return my kindness and give it."

The woman looked ready to cry, but she anyway, "Anastacia," she whispered. "Anastacia of... of Astora."

Solaire's brow lifted beneath his helm. "M'lady, I too hail from Astora!"

"Astora?" Logan said, his fingers sliding along the brim of his hat as he watched her thoughtfully. "That's funny. The blonde hair, the blue eyes, the jaw line, the nose, even the subtle vernacular of your voice led me to believe you hailed from Carim."

Anastacia's head snapped to him, dread in her eyes. She shook her head. "N-No, sir. Astora. Anastacia of _Astora_."

Logan's face was set in hard, cruel, lines beneath his hat, and for a moment Solaire feared he was going to strike the girl. Then his mouth broke into a smile and he laughed, patting the woman's forehead. "You can be whomever you desire, my sweet lady. After all what is a man or woman without their little stash of secrets? Mmm." He lifted his head to the ceiling. "You are free to walk the Archives as you see fit. There are bath chambers, food storages, wine cellars, bedding, lounging. You'll find most of the men gathered here are kind enough, but there are needs that take over a man's mind when they're not tended to, and so I'd warn you to remain as clothed as possible when in their company." His fingers ran along the brim of his hat. "You are not to take your own life, though. That, for now, belongs to me. Do you understand?"

Anastacia lowered her head and nodded.

"Good girl," Logan said, smiling. "And try not to upset the golems. They are violent creatures, I'm afraid, and are wont to destroy things they don't understand." He looked to Solaire. "Not much unlike men in that way, I suppose!" He laughed.

Solaire tried forcing laughter with him, but it sounded queer and flat in his throat and so he stopped. "Shall I escort the lady?"

"No," Logan said. "She can escort herself."

He stood, offered her a hand, and pulled her to her feet. She looked between the two of them, bowed, and left them. Logan watched her go, rubbing at his hat brim. "Pretty little thing. A shame those cruel Gods deemed her fit to keep the flames ablaze."

"Is she human?" Solaire asked in a quiet voice when he was sure she was out of earshot.

"Yes," Logan said. "Everything I read points to as much. Probably had a normal life... somewhere along the line... before her tongue was removed, I'm sure." He turned to Solaire. "What others news do you bring me good knight?"

Solaire pulled the helm from his head so Logan could see the smile on his face. "Logan... the crow has left its nest!"

Logan's face was a mystery beneath the shadow of his hat. He stroked his chin and hummed, soaking in the information.

Solaire's expression of joy melted to one of confusion. "I mean... this has to be a good sign, doesn't it? The Chosen that you spoke of. The crow only has ever left to retrieve them."

"But we've already _had_ a chosen," Logan pointed out. "And he failed."

Solaire sighed. "Yes... you don't need to remind me. But if somehow there is _another_..."

"Mmm, many possibilities," Logan admitted, nodding. "_Too_ many to waste valuable time speculating. Answers. We need them. _You_ will go and get them."

"_Me_?" Solaire questioned.

"You said yourself, Solaire, this could be very important. This could be part of the answer I've been slaving away looking for down here," Logan said. "Who else can I trust with such a task? Yes, you. Take who you need for the journey, but you _must_ head it. I need to know what that crow will bring us back from the asylum... provided it comes back at all to this cold, dying, world it left behind."

"I... will do as you ask," Solaire said, bowing. "But, Logan, the men grow impatient with you. They want to see you, speak to you. We all look to you for guidance and... and as our leader. If _I_ depart, their last weak link to you will be shattered."

"Mmm," Logan hummed. "I will... reveal myself in time. The men can wait until then."

"You'll be unprotected," Solaire pointed out.

"Will I?" Logan asked, and on command his crystal golem lumbered out from behind a pillar and fixed its blue head on Solaire.

Solaire swallowed. "Alright, Logan. I'll go... I... I hope to return to you with answers." Solaire thought of that dead, pale, sun lingering in the sky. "And with hope."

"As do I, friend," Logan agreed. "As do I."

With that, Logan disappeared back behind his stack of books and candles, and Solaire took a deep breath, bracing himself for the long climb out of the Archive's prison. Later, on his way through the library, he came upon the little blonde firekeeper standing at the second floor railing. She was sobbing into her hands. Solaire hurried beside her and offered his kerchief and a kind smile, but the woman only spun away from him and hurried off without so much as a reply. The knight frowned, tucked his kerchief back beneath his chest plate, and headed off to the barracks to form a traveling party for the long and perilous journey ahead.

_Praise the sun_, he thought. _I need it now more than ever_.


	6. Chapter 6

When the crow finally set down and nested once more in its perch high above Firelink Shrine, the knight and herself gripped in one of the beast's talons, Patches and the young ones in the other, Quelana not only saw the changes to Lordran, but _felt _them. The cold that had gripped every inch of the asylum they'd flown from had taken hold of the shrine as well. Icy winds rippled her black robes as the crow released them, and she discovered that the beast's nest was caked in a foot of snow where before there had been none. Below the perch, the world had been washed in a clean blanket of white. Quelana lifted her gaze to the distant bridges and fortresses that stood sentinel on the horizon and they too were buried in snowfall. She wondered what icy hell the foolish knight had unleashed upon this world, and if its cold grip had reached even Izalith; had reached her sisters.

She wrestled in his grip, glaring over her shoulder. "Release me. We've landed."

"This is... impossible," Lautrec muttered; his gray eyes drinking in the sight of the new Lordran beneath the loose strands of his dirty-blond hair. "No storm could have taken the land that quickly."

"You wanted your precious 'change'. You've got it. Now release me," Quelana repeated, trying to twist free of his arms.

"Quiet," the knight commanded in a hushed voice. His face has suddenly drawn into hard lines.

"Lautrec..." Patches whispered from the other side of the nest. The bald man's eyes had gone wide and apprehensive.

"I see it," the knight whispered back his reply.

Quelana craned her neck forward to look further down upon the shrine. There behind a grouping of stone pillars, she spotted what they had. "What further hells have you awoken you golden fool? Quelana could only see glimpses of fur and fangs and hooves as whatever monster awaited below passed behind pillar after pillar; a massive greataxe cutting a trench in the snow behind it as the beast dragged it along, scraping and chewing at the earth. The demon snarled and shook a tuft of snow loose from its furry shoulders before disappearing behind a stone wall near the dead bonfire.

"Taurus Demon," Laturec muttered. "It's not supposed to be here."

"Neither are _we_," Quelana hissed from within her robes and almost on cue a cold wind picked up and swept across the crow's nest, sending twigs and pebbles tumbling off the ledge to a hundred foot drop below.

"What's happening?" The young cleric girl, Abby, whined. Both she and the boy, Benjamin, where knelt beside Patches staring down at the horror below with fearful expressions frozen on their youthful faces. "What _is_ that thing?"

"I don't care," Ben said and reached back to pull his bow free. He pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it, drawing aim. "All I need is a clean shot."

"Put it down, boy," Lautrec warned. "You'll only awake the demon's fury."

"I'll stick him between the eyes," Benjamin said, pulling the bow taught. "Blind him."

"Too small of a target. You'll miss. Put it down. _Now_," Lautrec commanded.

Ben looked over, saw the stern expression on the knight's face, and lowered the bow. Abby crawled to the very edge of the nest, the snowfall already gathered in the soft ringlets of her chestnut-brown hair, and clasped her hands to her heart, watching below. "Perhaps... it doesn't mean us any harm."

Patches snorted laughter. "_Perhaps_ we should send you down to go and ask it that question, girl. Why don't you... try jumping? Heh."

"If I was sure I could survive the fall, I would," Abby replied earnestly. Quelana noted the girl wasn't aware she was being mocked.

"All of you be quiet," Lautrec said. "We wait the beast out. He'll wander off eventually."

"If it doesn't?" Patches asked.

"It will."

And so they waited. The demon lumbered back and forth, his dark fur flashing as he passed between pillars. At a point, the beast drove its greataxe into the dirt and roared, but whatever had riled him up must have passed; he pulled the axe free and continued pacing around aimlessly. The demon worked its way towards the bonfire and sniffed at it.

"No..." Lautrec muttered. "The fire is... out."

Quelana hadn't realized it earlier, but the knight was right. Not even the smallest of embers grew within the bonfire's kindling. She turned back to see the knight's face. "Either your poor mute victim has gone free of her prison... or she's already dead."

A myriad of emotions washed across Lautrec's face as he stared down at the bonfire. Finally, he whispered, "She's not dead... not yet."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"I know," Lautrec answered, and said nothing more on the subject.

"Oh my," Abby cried out. "Look!"

Below, now that the demon had turned its back on their position, the monster's deformity, like the Asylum Demon before it, was clearly visible. A _second_ head hung limply from the creature's shoulders, dangling down near its elbow from a thin neck, swinging side to side with each of the demon's steps. The unformed head's mouth was lined with fangs even sharper than its full head, and Quelana could see a pink tongue lashing at the falling snow as it hung near upside down.

"_You're_ responsible for all this," Quelana whispered back over her shoulder at the knight. "You've unleashed hell upon Lordran in your foolish quest for change. Whatever cruel Gods used to watch over us... surely they've abandoned us now."

"You watch your tongue, witch," Patches warned from the other side of the nest.

"No, she's right," Lautrec admitted. "I take full responsibility for this. I intended to break the maddening, eternal, cycle of this world and I have. I never expected there to be no consequences. If we have to slay a few deformed demon's as a result... so be it."

"And this cold?" Quelana asked. "What if it has no end? What if it only grows worse? What-"

Lautrec's hand landed over her mouth. "We're spotted," he said, staring down at the shrine.

Quelana shifted her eyes to follow his gaze and saw what he'd seen: the demon's second head had two, beady, red eyes nested in the glowing pits below its bulky forehead. They were gazing upwards, staring at the crow's nest as it swung side to side. The head's mouth snarled into a grimace and the thing unleashed a shrill, piercing, whine that sounded like the dying wail of some pain-wracked bird. The demon's top head swung around, its eyes finding their party atop the nest as well, and it bellowed a great roar, burying its axe into the earth and beating at its own chest with its free hand.

"Well, shit," Patches cursed and pulled a shortsword from its sheath at his waist. "Was really hoping we wouldn't have to fight the giant demon with two heads today, you know."

Quelana shook her head free from the knight's hand. "Untie me, you fool! I will burn the beast."

"_You_ will run for Blighttown the first chance you get," Lautrec said, standing and unsheathing his dual shotels.

"Be that as it may, I _will_ end that monster's suffering," Quelana insisted, rolling to her back and clenching her fists. "Now cut me loose. You need me."

Below, the Taurus Demon roared again, closer this time, and Quelana felt the stone foundation they were perched upon shake as if struck by a mighty blow. Lautrec looked from her, to the edge of the perch, and back. He licked his lips and sighed. "Alright, witch. Don't make me regret this," he warned, knelt, and untied the knot binding her torso and upper arms.

The demon screamed again and the perch rumbled.

Quelana tugged at the rope left around her wrists. "Free my hands."

"Don't push it," Lautrec said, taking her by the elbow and pulling her to her feet. He took up the loose slack coming from her wrists and tossed it to Abby. "Hold on to that. If she runs, pull her back, understood?"

The girl's face wrinkled with confusion. "W-What? Why me? I don't-"

"What else can you do?" Lautrec asked.

Abby opened her mouth to retort, a look of realization came across her face, and she closed it again. "...okay."

"I'll flank around it!" Ben said, stepping beside the golden knight and pulling a dagger from its sheath. "I'm good at staying hidden. I'll-"

"Stay here," Lautrec cut him off. "And if the demon looks like it's gaining the upper hand on Patches or myself, hit it with an arrow to distract it."

Benjamin frowned. "Yes, but what if-"

"I wasn't asking," Laturec said. He turned to Patches. "You're the first one down. The demon is deceptively quick and has quite the reach with that axe of his, so I'd suggest you hit the ground running."

The bald man didn't look pleased, but unlike the other two, he didn't contest the knight's command. Instead, he gripped his sword a bit tighter in his hand, moved to the end of the perch where the rope they'd used to make their ascent here in the first place awaited, and took hold of it. "Don't leave me waiting long," he said with a wink, a grin, and a leap over the side, rope in hand.

The perch shook again, this time hard enough for the stone floor to crack at the corner and drop a slate of rock loose to plummet below. Lautrec took the rope up and stuck it forcefully into Quelana's hands. "Remember I gave you my word to see you back to Blighttown, witch. Consider that before you go burning things you shouldn't down there."

"I don't know what or _whom_ you might be referring to," Quelana said, lifting her hands up near the knight's face and commanding a small lick of flames to dance from her fingertips.

Lautrec recoiled from the fire and frowned. He said, "Who knows what horrors await you in Blighttown now? You might _need_ a knight such as myself for safe passage," then, turning to Abby, "Keep a short leash on her."

Quelana turned back to the girl and squinted. Abby's cheeks flushed with color and she lowered her gaze. Quelana shook her head, tightened her grip around the rope, and lowered herself over the edge to rappel down. The descent was brief and relatively easy and then her feet were touching the snowy soil of Lordran. Patches was nowhere to be seen and, thankfully, neither was the demon. Quelana lifted her hands once more and cursed the knight for leaving them bound. Abby was beside her a moment later, the slack of Quelana's binds in her hand. When Quelana fixed her with another glare, the girl swallowed and raised her arms defensively. "I-I'm just doing as the knight says. Please, I... don't wish to be burned."

"I'm not going to burn you," Quelana told her, and for a second she considered leaning closer to the girl and whispering an enchantment in her ear, but then Lautrec had dropped beside them as well and she put the thought aside.

"What are you doing?" He whispered at Abby, shotels clenched in his golden gauntlets. "Take her and _move_. We have to split up and get around the creature."

"Oh, yes," Abby said, shaking her head and biting at her lip. She turned to Quelana, swallowed, and nervously tugged at the rope.

If the girl wasn't so damned frightened, Quelana might have put up a struggle, but the girl was putting herself through enough stress already, and so she went obediently enough. Lautrec rushed past them, shotels at his sides, crouched for stealth. He slipped around a wall of stone, tufts of snow flailing up behind his golden heels. Abby led her around the other way taking slow, cautious, steps, stopping every few seconds when she would hear the demon roar from somewhere near. Quelana remained silent, allowing the girl to take them further and further away from the others, but she had intentions of her own. Somewhere beyond the wall, Patches shouted, and the demon bellowed a war cry. She heard an arrow loosed from the perch above and the boy, Benjamin, shout "_Go_!". The sound of stone splintering apart and crumbling filled the air and Abby gasped and lifted a trembling hand to her lips.

They were approaching the edge of the wall that would wrap around and lead them back out to the main clearing of the bonfire, and Quelana saw her window of opportunity closing shut. She stopped walking, and when Abby ran out of slack, the sudden tug at the rope almost caused her to loose her footing. She turned back, doe-eyed and confused, and gently pulled at the rope. "Come _on_! We have to-"

"Come to me, girl," Quelana interrupted, walking forward and taking up the slack in her own hands so it shortened and shortened as she neared. "Let me tell you something."

"What are you doing?" Abby whispered, her brow raised. "Are you going to... hurt me?"

"No, sweet girl, nothing like that," Quelana assured her, and when the slack had all been taken up between them, she pulled the girl closer to her and pressed her lips beside Abby's ear. The words she spoke, not even Quelana herself could truly comprehend. They were old words, _ancient_ words, and when she whispered them, it was as if something just as old and ancient was speaking through her, moving her tongue, manipulating the air. She felt the girl stiffen beside her and then suddenly go limp. Quelana took her in her arms and lowered her to the snow earth, resting her beside the wall.

"Untie the knot that binds my hands," Quelana commanded, holding her wrists out for the girl to free.

"Mmm," Abby moaned, her eyes rolling in her head. "I... I..."

"You are under my spell for now," Quelana said, growing impatient. "Now _untie the knot_."

Abby's eyes fell on the knot, focused, but then looked away. "Wh... why?"

Quelana mouth fell agape. She had been using the Undead Rapport spell for as long as she could remember. She'd used it on her pupils, on her enemies, even her own _sister_ once. None had ever resisted it. "Did you not hear me? I told you to-"

"No," Abby said, shaking her head. She was groggy, listless, but somewhere within the girl her consciousness remained her own.

Quelana rose, nonplussed, and stared at the girl. Beyond the wall, a man-Quelana couldn't make out whether it had been Lautrec or Patches-shouted again, and the ground trembled with a mighty blow. She had no time to puzzle over the anomaly before her. She took the slack of her rope up in her still-bound hands and moved towards the edge of the wall. Before she left, she turned back to the girl and said, "Stay where you are. You'll be safe," and then quickly sprinted down the narrow passage beyond.

Peering out to the bonfire clearing, she could see no man or demon in sight, only the white blanket of snow that had seemed to wrap every bit of Lordran in its embrace. In the pale blue sky beyond, a dead husk of light hung in the sky as snowfall rained from its belly. _The great fire in the sky even runs cold, _Quelana thought. _Mother Izalith save us. _And with that, she made a dash for the spiraling stairs that would lead her back home.

Patches body sailing through the air broke her line of sight. The bald man slammed the earth, sliding in the thick carpet of snow into a nearby stone structure and crying out in pain. There was blood coming from his shoulder. The Taurus Demon came lumbering after him from below the shrine's arched passages, axe trailing along beside him. On ground level, Quelana found the monster even more horrifying. He towered in the air, fifteen feet high, and his dagger-lined mouth was snapping at the air as he rushed forward. His axe came up, and he crouched back on his haunches ready to leap.

Lautrec came out from below the arches as well, his fingers tucked between his lips, and gave a whistle. The demon's deformed, limp, head screeched, and the top head turned to face the golden knight. Lautrec pulled his second shotel free from its sheath and moved quickly behind the monster, pulling its attention from Patches. The beast's eyes locked on him and it's mouth snapped at the falling snows between them. Even from Quelana's position two dozen feet away, she could smell the necrotic odor of the creature's breath poison the air. _You're wasting time_, she realized and turned to run.

Her foot had only fallen on the first step before she stopped herself. _You've run before, Quelana, _she thought, _and everything you left behind became ruins. _She turned back just in time to see the knight roll away from a wide, sweeping, blow of the demon's axe. She owed neither him nor any of the rest of them any allegiance. She was their _prisoner_, after all, but the thought of running away again-the cowardice of abandonment-did not sit well in her mind.

Lautrec shouted his own war cry and leapt at the demon with both shotels clutched high above his head in his gaunlet-clad fists. Their blades ripped down the beast's thigh, spraying a trail of near-black blood from the wound, and prompting a shrill wail of pain from the thing before it backhanded the knight aside. Lautrec tumbled backwards, caught himself, and stood. He shouted again and moved forward, but a rock must have been hidden beneath the snowy earth, for Quelana saw him stumble and fall to a knee. The Taurus Demon used the opportunity and drove its greataxe down, forward, and then upwards. The flat body of its steel blade caught Lautrec under the chest and thrust him up and backwards. He sailed backwards through the air, landing and sliding away into the snow on his back. His eyes squeezed shut and he clenched his teeth, sucking in air. The demon gave chase to his position.

Quelana looked from the battle scene to the stairs and back. She could never take back the regretful decision to flee from Izalith while her sisters were deformed by the chaos that took it... but she could certainly prevent any new regrets. The Taurus Demon lifted its greataxe over its head and moved forward-

-and Quelana rushed towards it to intercept. The beast's eyes flicked from Lautrec's fallen body to her, and the demon changed its course. She lifted her hands up parallel to her shoulders and angled her palms at the beast, fingers spread wide. It roared, brought its greataxe down at her, and-

-flames erupted from her hands, birthing a chaotic circle of searing, scorching, red and orange destruction. The fire spread out in a wide circle, acting both as a shield from the demon's blow as well as a counter attack of her own. It screeched and reeled back on its heel to escape the heat, but the fire rushed forward, sweeping across its body in a pillar of flame. The thing's fur caught, and by the time her flames had dissipated, the demon had birthed its _own_ flames on its shoulders and back and thighs. Its head rolled back on its neck and it wailed to the sky before dropping into the snow and rolling back and forth, desperate to quell the fires taking its fur.

Lautrec clambered to his feet. He looked from the demon to her, nodded his thanks, and moved in to attack the beast, shotels in hand. The demon rose, the fires out, but his fur blackened and thick with ash.

_It's not abandonment. You helped. Now run, _Quelana told herself and turned to do just that.

"_Witch_!" Lautrec shouted after her. "Stay and fight! I need-"

But his words were cut short when the demon's claw nearly took his head from his golden shoulders. Quelana hurried around the corner, took the spiraling stairs two at a time, and rushed past the empty caged hole in the earth towards the second stairwell that would lead to the elevator... and to home.

She was halfway towards them when the Taurus Demon's hulking figure blotted out the entire sky. Quelana looked, wide-eyed and frightened, upwards and saw the thing had leaped down from the top level and was looking to drive its axe into her. She side-stepped and rolled out of the way as the greataxe chewed a massive chunk of dirt and soil and snow from the ground. The demon landed with a booming_ thud_ and roared.

Quelana rolled to her back-arduously with her hands bound-and faced the demon. She lifted her hands and tried unleashing another burst of flame, yet none came. She had expended much of her inner fire bewitching the girl earlier and then attacking the demon and she needed time to recharge. Time that she did not have.

Lautrec came sailing down after the demon, looking to plunge his shotels down atop the creature's back, but the deformed, little, head hanging from its shoulders screeched a warning, and the Taurus Demon spun and lifted its massive claw upwards. Lautrec was caught in the demon's grip, shaken like a play doll, and then thrust down into the ground. He lay limp and injured and possibly dead beside the empty cage where he had, ironically, murdered the woman within countless times. The demon snorted victory, turned back to Quelana and raised its greataxe.

She could see Benjamin loosing arrow after arrow down upon the monster from the crow's perch, but half were missing and the other half were simply bouncing off the creature's thick shoulders. Lautrec lay limp and unconscious, and Quelana realized it was over. As the demon neared, she lowered her hands and forced herself to stare the monster down as it came to end her. _Forgive me my sisters, _she thought. _May mercy find you._

"Stop!"

Abby came stumbling down the stairs behind the demon, clutching to the wall for support as she neared. "Stop," she spoke again, resting a hand to her forehead and shaking snow from her thick fall of hair.

"What are you doing you foolish girl!?" Quelana shouted. "I told you to stay put! Now the thing will kill us _all_!"

"No," she said, shaking her head, and then spoke softly to the demon, "You won't hurt anyone anymore."

The Taurus Demon turned to face her, cocking its head sideways as its beady eyes narrowed upon her. It only studied her quietly for a moment before a great growl erupted from its mouth and its greataxe came up over its head, shaking in the air furiously.

"Stop it," she said, taking a step forward, her hands at her sides.

"Foolish child," Quelana whispered, shaking her head. She tested her inner flame, but found it was still not ready to burn. She was helpless but to watch as the girl moved closer and closer and the demon grew angrier and angrier. Once she was in striking distance, though, the beast's axe lowered a bit, and as Abby stepped even _closer_, the demon seemed to grow confused.

"Still your rage, beast," Abby commanded. "We mean you no further harm and expect none in return."

Miraculously, the demon's greataxe dropped from its hand. Its eyes watched the girl who stood not even half of its height step right up to its belly and rest her hand on its leg. "Lower yourself so I may look upon you," Abby spoke softly.

Quelana was speechless as she watched the lumbering monster who had just torn apart two grown men and nearly beheaded her lower to its knee and stare at the girl before it. Abby smiled and reached for the thing's furry neck. "I don't believe it..." Quelana whispered, climbing to her feet and approaching the baffling scene before her. She looked from the calm, almost seren-looking, demon to Abby. First the girl had resisted her spell, and now _this_. "What _are_ you?" Quelana asked.

Abby was still smiling as her hands stroked the demon's fur. "The Chosen One, aren't I? That's what you all told me, at least."

"No, girl..." Quelana said, swallowing a sudden dryness in her throat. "You are... something _else_."

Lautrec was back on his feet, but leaning up beside the barred hole in the dirt. His fists were wrapped around the bars and he was breathing very heavily. When he turned back to look upon the unusual sight of Abby and the kneeling demon, his face was red and furious. His shotels were back in his hands. He approached.

"No," Quelana told him, quickly stepping around the demon to block his path. "Can't you see the girl has subdued the beast? You don't have to-"

He shoved her out of the way. "You ran. You don't get a say in this anymore."

"I saved your _life_!" Quelana protested as she stumbled back and fell into the snow.

"Only to abandon it the next chance you got," Lautrec said moving towards the demon.

"It _wasn't _abandonment!" Quelana snapped.

Lautrec ignored her and walked up next to Abby, staring at the demon with a look of both wonder and hatred gripping his face.

"Please," Abby begged. "Battle is in this creature's nature. It wasn't his fault that he attacked. You have to-"

Lautrec shoved her down as well, and without a further word, he buried his shotel into the demon's jugular, a spray of dark blood painting his golden gauntlets with death. Abby screamed, tears swelling in his eyes, but a rage had taken hold of the knight and he began digging his shotels into the creature's throat in quick, furious, succession. And yet, the demon did not fight back. It only fell to its side and choked on its own blood as the knight dug into its throat.

It was dead long before Lautrec stopped hacking away.

Abby was kneeling in the snow, her face buried in her palms, softly sobbing. Quelana stepped beside her, knelt, and put her hands on the girl's shoulder. Patches had appeared above them on the edge of land overlooking the cage and scratched at his bald head. "What the hell..." he muttered.

Lautrec pulled his shotels free from the dead demon's throat. His gauntlets and chest plate were covered and dripping in the thing's blood as he stood panting and gasping to catch his breath. Quelana looked upon him shaking her head as she rubbed Abby's shoulder. "You weren't that furious at the demon. _You're_ rage didn't awaken until you peered into that empty cage where your 'victim' usually resides," she said. He did not look back at her or respond, so she continued. "There are only two things I've ever seen that awaken such emotion in man. So tell me, golden knight, which is it that you kill that poor firekeeper over? Hatred... or love?"

For a long time Lautrec was quiet, and just when Quelana had given up on an answer, he muttered, "Both," and sheathed his blades.

As the pale circle of light that might have once been the sun lowered below the distant horizon and night came upon Lordran, they made their camp their at the firelink shrine. Lautrec had Patches and Benjamin fetch proper kindling for the bonfire from the surrounding lands, and then had Quelana light it before marching her away from the fire to a nearby stone pillar. Her reward for saving his life was to be seated and bound with ropes to it for the night. For her attempt at bewitching Abby, he replaced the gag in her mouth and then she was left to sit, quiet and alone, as the rest of them gathered around the bonfire.

"I'm cut," Patches grumbled, nursing to his bloody shoulder as he slumped beside the bonfire and chucked a twig into the flames. "God damned demon bastard... ugly too, hee-hee."

"I can close the gash with steel and fire," Lautrec told him, "but I have no way to stop any plague that may have crept into the wound."

Patches sighed, seemed to have an internal debate, and then turned to Benjamin, who was looking pale and ill beside him. "There's a hidden sack of wineskins back that way," he pointed, "under a pile of three, white, rocks. Go fetch them, boy."

"I'm sick," Ben protested, and to his credit, he certainly looked it.

"I don't _give_ a piss, I'm bleeding! Get to it ya little shit," Patches shouted, picking up a small rock and chucking it at him.

"_I'll_ get your damn wine," Lautrec said, tossing his gauntlets beside the fire and standing. "Though we're going to have to have a conversation about what other little 'stashes' you may have hidden around." He lifted his eyes to the sky, to the snow. "Assuming its still there. We have changed quite a bit in this wretched world."

Patches brow turned up. "Oh, wouldn't that be unfortunate? Not my lovely little wine stash, let those cursed gods freeze out the rest of the world, but for mercy's sake _leave_ the wine!"

Lautrec disappeared behind the stone arches that lead to the cemetery Quelana had spotted from the crow's perch and returned a moment later, a brown sack at his side. Patches spotted it and a crooked smile twisted up his face. "Ah, so the Gods _do_ still exist! Delightful! Hee-hee."

The bald man's laughter fell awake quickly and was replaced by painful wailing a few moments later as Lautrec doused his gashed shoulder with wine. Patches had to take a belt between his teeth as Benjamin held him when the knight heated his shotel's blade above the bonfire and pressed it to the wound, sealing it. When it was done, and Patches had finished grunting and groaning. The three began passing a wineskin around between them. Abby sat, cradling her knees, staring quietly into the fire and for the most part ignoring them until Ben turned to her and offered the wine.

"Made _me_ feel a bit better," he said.

"No thank you," Abby said softly and rested her chin on her knees.

"Are you angry with me, girl?" Lautrec asked, taking a seat at the opposite end of the flames. "For killing your poor, sweet, _demon_."

Abby spoke no response, the subtle creasing of her brow the only hint she'd heard him at all.

Lautrec laughed and took a swig from the wineskin. "The question is," he continued, swiping at his lips. "What has changed in this cursed world that allowed such a thing to happen? Was it the deformed beast itself... or is it _you_ that's special?"

Abby shrugged. "_You_ told me I was special. That I was... Chosen."

"Well the _both_ of you are," Patched interrupted, gesturing at Ben. "But the only thing worthwhile the kid here has done is stick an arrow in your chest back at the asylum! Hee-hee."

Ben looked chagrined. "I didn't _mean_ to," he defended. "And I could do a lot more! It wasn't my fault you left me up there with the stupid _crow_ to watch the action. I could've helped... could've killed that stupid demon thing myself."

"Why are you all so determined to _kill_ everything?" Abby protested, her voice finally raising from a quiet whisper. "We could have saved him!"

"Saved it from _what_?" Lautrec asked with a grin. "It was a demon. They exist only to cause pain and destruction. It deserved death and death is what I gave it."

"What do _you_ exist for?" Abby snapped back. "All I've seen _you_ do is cause death and destruction."

Lautrec looked to Patches and the two shared a laugh. "She's feisty now that she's a demon charmer, ey?" Patches said and took a swig of wine.

"I'm cold," Ben piped up, wrapping his arms around his leather jerkin.

Lautrec sighed. "What cruel jest of the Gods was it to give me two Chosen, one that wants to _hug_ our enemies into submission, and the other who does nothing but complain and miss shots he _should _have made."

Ben mouth fell indignantly agape. "Hey, I _hit _with a lot of those arrows."

"And missed with just as many," Patches added.

"You've got some natural ability, but you lack the discipline of a more seasoned archer," Lautrec told the boy. "Your back hunches and your elbow dips when you pull the bow taught. You have to fix that."

"Well... _show_ me," Ben said.

Lautrec drank from the wineskin and Quelana could see the liquid within was setting to work on all three of them. The knight shrugged, stood, and led the boy over to the edge of the camp. Patches fought to his feet and wobbled after them, laughing at some poor joke about 'arrows in your arse'. When she was alone, Abby stood, wrapped her cleric's cloak closer to her body and crossed the clearing, moving towards Quelana. She trudged through the snow, up the short set of stone stairs, and stopped before her. Abby folded her arms across her chest and stared down at her. Quelana could do nothing but stare back. Back near the bonfire, Patches laughed, and Benjamin shouted something.

Abby looked from them back to Quelana. "If I remove the gag from your mouth... will you try to control my mind again?"

Quelana shook her head, and she meant it. The girl had not only saved her life, but it was clear to her now that there was something special about her.

Abby bit her lip, took one last glance over her shoulder, and crouched beside Quelana. She swallowed nervously as she flipped the hood of her dark cloak away from Quelana's face and reached behind her head to loose the gag's knot. It came away from her lips and Quelana licked at them. "Thank you, she said quietly to the girl.

Abby smiled, nodded, and took a seat beside her; facing her and tucking her knees up to her body again. A moment of silence passed between them, and then the girl asked, "How did you do that to me before? How did you... enter my mind like that?"

"It is a very old trick," Quelana said, shifting the most the ropes around her body would allow to try and get comfortable. "The better question is: how did _you_ resist it? I've never seen that happened before."

Abby shrugged. "I... don't know," she said, and then upon further thought, "I don't understand it. The knight told me I'm the 'Chosen' undead. Aren't I _supposed_ to be special somehow?"

Quelana nodded. "Yes. It's just... both that knight and myself have lived through many cycles of 'Chosen' heroes. None have been able to do what you did today."

"Then perhaps they were false heroes..." Abby said with a shrug.

"Perhaps they were," Quelana admitted and couldn't help a smile come across her face. She liked the girl. There was something... _honest_ about the way she spoke, as if she had nothing to hide and nothing to lose. For all Quelana knew, maybe she didn't. "You said you came from Vinheim?"

Abby nodded, and when she did snow shook loose from her hair. "Yes. My parents sent me to the great Dragon School for mages and clerics there. I... I wasn't particularly good at either, though." She looked to the sky and smiled wistfully. "I had done so _well_ on all the pretests, but when it came down to the real thing... casting and praying and all that... I was just no good. My parents weren't sad or angry or anything, but... they certainly didn't do much to hide their disappointment."

Quelana nodded. "Yes, many men and women I've come across have found the _higher_ arts extremely difficult to grasp. They have to do with your mind, you know I'm sure. The school had to be good for _some_thing?"

Abby bit her lip and smiled before nodding. "Yes. Intellect for spells, faith for miracles."

"Mages minds are attuned to understand knowledge and logic on a deep level," Quelana said. "It is, unfortunately, something that can not be taught. A pupil of mine from long ago, Salaman, explained as much once. They grasp numbers and patterns better than others, and so they can see the knowledge of ancient truths that hide in this world and utilize it in their magics. Clerics... they rely on the Gods for their strength. When you cast a miracle, you really aren't casting anything. You are _asking_ the Gods for a favor. Whether they hear you or not is out of your hands... it all depends on how deep your faith runs." She narrowed her eyes on the girl before her with the pretty blue eyes and the tattered cleric robes. "But I don't take it you're a very _pious_ woman, are you?"

"No... not especially I guess," Abby admitted.

Quelana nodded, pausing to let her next words sink in when she spoke them. "But yet there _are_ other high arts. Other... _darker_ arts."

Abby's mouth had fallen agape. A flake of snow landed on her lip and she swiped it away. "You mean..." she nodded at Quelana's hands. "Like your fire."

"Yes," Quelana told her. "While mages pursue knowledge, and clerics lead a life of servitude, _pyromancers_ lead one of _control_. You don't ask the flames for favor, you _command_ them to do as you desire."

The girl's eyes had gone wide, and Quelana seized the moment to let a small trickle of flames dance along her hand, from thumb to pinky and back before snuffing it. Abby swallowed and lifted her gaze back to Quelana's eyes. "And _any_one can learn pyromancy? They forbid talk of it at school."

"_Any_one," Quelana said. "The only trick to it is to remember you command the flames," she spoke softly, and her mind drifted briefly to Salaman, "but you _must_ fear them, too... less they consume you."

Abby's face was alight with interest, curiosity, fear, anticipation. She bit at her lip and stared at Quelana's hands. "So... you'd be willing to take me on as your student?"

"Yes."

Abby swallowed. "That knight said you weren't human. That you're... a witch. That you were _born_ from the fire. Is that really true?"

"Yes."

The girl's brow lifted, clearly not expecting such a blunt answer. "Oh. I... see."

"We both came from dark souls, child," Quelana pressed. "We can't be that different."

"Perhaps not," Abby admitted with a nod of her head, and those pretty blue eyes of hers took on a glint of hope.

"What are you doing over there, girl!?" Patches' voice came across the clearing. "Get away from that fire bit-er, uh, fire _witch_ and bring us another skin of wine."

Abby sighed. "I'm not sure how I feel about the rest of this party... they seem so intent on warring against everything. And now they _drink_ when there could be dangers just beyond any one of these hills."

"War and wine," Quelana said. "Two things that men will _always_ lust for." Her eyes traced the figure of the girl's body sitting before her. "And there is a _third_ thing that they desire. You'd best be on your guard to protect it, for I can not help you in these ropes."

Abby thought for a moment and then recognition came across her face. "Oh," she said, grimacing and wrapping her robes tighter to her body. "I... I will try and talk them into releasing you. If I am to be your student, they cannot treat you this way, right?"

Quelana smiled. "You are... a sweet girl. Let us hope your words are true."

Abby returned the smile. "Alright. I'll talk to the knight first thing on the morrow."

"Approach him gently," Quelana warned. "A man's ego is fragile and he is prone to hurt the things that threaten it."

Abby nodded, and held the gag up, offering a sympathetic smile. "Sorry," she said and leaned forward to retie it around Quelana's head.

"A glove," Quelana spoke before her mouth was silenced. "A pyromancer needs a glove. Make it your priority to find one."

"Yes," Abby agreed and replaced the gag. "A glove and your release will be the first thing I ask for tomorrow. And... thank you."

Quelana nodded, the girl returned the hood of her cloak over her head, and then headed back to the bonfire to bring the group of rowdy men firing arrows into the dirt their wine. There was something about the girl that brought her a sense of hope she hadn't felt in some long time. Perhaps she'd be the one to finally bring peace to Izalith and release her sisters from their cruel fate. Perhaps she'd be the one to end this cycle of failures that had plagued Lordran.

It was with these thoughts of hope that Quelana drifted to sleep.

She dreamed of fire; of a great hero rising from a lake of ash to burn away all the world's monsters - man and demon alike. The hero was short and thin, but determined, and had the prettiest blue eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

The shadow swam through the bed of ash and bones and in its path it left lines of fire and chaos; it was death and it was coming for all. The bones it shattered through formed a beast, and the beast made to stop the shadow, but the shadow's hands came alive with flames, and the bone beast was slain in a swirl of searing destruction. The liquid ashes took on the form of a towering golem, but the shadow's power had only grown. It rose from the lake of death like tendrils of black smoke. The fire that had started in its hands had spread to its arms and then to its body and then there was no shadow at all: there was only fire. The fire God kissed the ash and kissed the bones and kissed the sky itself. They all caught flame and the world was burning. The fire God's face looked upon him and it was her one second, then another person the next, then it was her again, then another.

"_Ana_!" Lautrec shouted. His eyes opened as he sat from the cold bed of snow beneath him gasping for air. His skin felt hot and sticky beneath his leathers, yet his hands were freezing. He tucked them beneath the pits of his arms and took a moment to orient himself.

Darkness was all around, still gripping the lands of Lordran in blackness. The fire they had lit before he'd fallen asleep was dead, and the vague shadowy figures of his traveling companions were unmoving lumps in a semi-circle around it. _Shadows become fire,_ he thought for one mad second before shaking the foolish idea from his head. "Patches," he whispered across the bonfire; it was the bald man's turn on watch the last he remembered.

When Patches did not reply, Lautrec had another mad thought pop into his head. _They're dead. They're all dead and frozen and I'm the last living man in the world. _"Patches!" He tried again.

One of the still lumps shifted in the dark and grumbled. "Er... piss off."

"You fell asleep on your watch," Lautrec scolded him. "We all could have had our throats slit in the night."

The lump suddenly rose. "Curse the Gods... I, um, wasn't sleeping. Just... giving my eyes a rest is all." Patches paused and then added, "Bloody dark out here with no bonfire anyway. Doubt any attackers could even find our throats to slit in the first place."

"I bet I could find yours," Lautrec told him.

Patches nervous laughter was his only reply.

"Does this feel... wrong to you?" Lautrec questioned. He focused on the distant horizon of mountaintops, dimly aglow with pale moonlight. "This night, I mean. It feels unnaturally long. Dawn should have broken by now."

"Perhaps we blinked the sun right out of existence? Hee," Patches laughed.

The joke didn't sit well with Lautrec. The sun already looked dying when they'd arrived in Lordran. The possibility that it was now _dead_ wasn't as far-fetched as he would have liked it to be. The snow had given up falling, but the cold had grown even colder, and it didn't look like dawn was likely to break anytime soon. "We need to relight the fire," Lautrec said.

"On that, friend, we can agree," said Patches.

Lautrec stood, stretching the stiffness out of his back that never seemed to be there in his early twenties, but ten years carrying the weight of his golden armor had put a lot of mileage on it, and so it needed a good stretch after a night of sleep. He groped for his armor beside him, found his boots, and pulled them onto his feet. He grabbed a thick branch from the bonfire and headed off towards Quelana.

She was still sleeping when he came upon her, bound from shoulders to waist to a stone pillar at her back. He crouched beside her and shook her shoulder. "Come awake, witch. I have use of your flames." When she did not respond, he shook her a bit harder. "Wake up," he spoke more loudly. Again, she did not respond so he pulled the hood from her head and-

-gasped. In the dim light of the moon, he saw her pale face had grown even paler, and her eyes were turned back into her head, leaving two wide and white circles in their place. She was violently shaking and her teeth were sunk deep into the gag in her mouth. "Hey!" Lautrec shouted, reached up, and ripped the gag free. Her mouth clamped tightly shut, but he could hear her teeth rattling against each other within.

"What is it?" Patches voice called from the bonfire.

"She's... in a seizure or something," Lautrec said.

"Careful, Lautrec," Patches warned; his voice had grown closer. "She's a witch don't forget. Might be a trick. Could be trying to get you to let your guard down."

"It's not a _trick_, you fool, bring me something to wrap her in - she's shaking," Lautrec commanded, and the urgency in his voice took even _him_ by surprise. The witch had saved his life, he supposed, and he found himself wanting to repay the debt if possible.

Patches was beside him a few moments later. Lautrec reached out and Patches dropped a thin bundle of cloth in his hand. "This is _it_? What even _is_ it?"

"It's the robes of a man I killed. Nasty little cleric he was," Patches said. "It's all we got, Lautrec. We weren't exactly _prepared_ for a cursed blizzard to take over Lordran."

"We weren't prepared for any of this. That's the problem," Lautrec admitted. He loosened the knot binding the witch to the pillar and she fell into his arms the second she was freed. He made sure here wrists were still secured before wrapping the cleric robes around her shoulders and body and pulling them tight. Besides that, he didn't know what else to do for her.

"Make sure she don't swallow her tongue," Patches said. "Hell... she _is_ shaking like a damned leaf in the wind."

He sat like that beside her for a while, occasionally sticking his fingers between her lips and parting them to make sure her tongue was where it should be. Lautrec had nearly forgotten what it was like to hold a woman and how good it could feel, though he quickly reminded himself that Quelana was no woman, nor even _human_, and the shivering thing he held in his arms was a witch birthed from flame who detested him.

Dawn had still refused to break by the time she spoke, "I'm dying."

Her quiet voice caught Lautrec by surprise. He craned his neck forward to glimpse her face. Her eyes had rolled back to their rightful place, but she still shook in his arms, and her face was pale and wrinkled with lines of stress. "You're not dying, witch. You were in... a seizure of some sort," Lautrec told her.

"I've never felt like this," Quelana whispered, her voice shaking as much as her body when she spoke. "All the heat in the world... it is gone. It has fled from my body and only a lifeless layer of death and stone have replaced it. It shakes me."

"You're just cold," Lautrec told her.

"I've gone my entire existence without ever feeling this 'cold' that your kind speaks of," Quelana said. "You're telling me I'm just _now_ experiencing it?"

"I saw a girl _talk_ a demon into laying down before her yesterday," Lautrec said. "I witnessed a beast with two heads. I saw a blizzard overtake an entire _world_ in the blink of an eye, and I've seen two young people die and be reborn together from flames. Things have changed, witch. Perhaps this is one of them."

"I did not feel like this before I fell asleep," Quelana said, still shaking in his arms. "And then I dreamed... or perhaps it was a nightmare."

"Hey, you had a dream too there fire witch?" Patches asked. Lautrec turned to his shadowy figure a few feet away; he'd forgotten the man was even standing there. "Me too."

Lautrec frowned as a knot of trepidation coiled in his stomach. "...so did I."

"Yeah?" Patches asked. "My mother was in mine. Funny thing is, though: bitch has been _dead_ for about twenty years now. Never _once _had a dream about her. She was all in flames and she was fighting all these great monsters and creatures. Like she was protecting me maybe? Too little, too late, sweet mother. Hee."

"My dream was about a warrior in flames as well," Quelana said, and Lautrec noted that her shivering immediately steadied a bit. "Except the warrior had the face of the Chosen girl. Of Abby."

"Sharing dreams with a witch?" Patches said. "That can't be good. Unless you dreamed the same cursed thing too, Lautrec."

"No," he lied. Her face was there again in his mind's eye, smiling one moment, crying the next, and finally begging. Begging him for what she deserved. "I dreamed of winning a tournament."

Quelana looked at him for a moment before saying, "A lie. But I do not wish to speak further of these dreams anyway. Dreams speak in riddles, and I'd like to think on mine."

And just like that, her shivering stopped entirely. Her sudden stillness beneath his arms was almost disconcerting.

"It's about time," Patches said, standing. "Dawn's broken."

Lautrec lifted his gaze to the far, Eastern, horizon and sure enough: that dead, blue, oval of light was rising, clawing fingers of sunlight between the mountain top peaks.

"Release me," Quelana said.

"You're welcome," Lautrec replied dryly and unwrapped her from the robes.

"You'll have my _thanks_ when you hold true to your word and return me to Blighttown so that I may find out what's happened to my sisters," Quelana told him.

"In time," Lautrec said, growing impatient with her insistence on returning to that plagued place. "First, I need to find someone. I need to find out what's _happened_ to Lordran since we've left. It seems like we were only gone for a short time, but... time may have been distorted. That night felt queer and overly long. Who knows how much time may have passed while we were clutched in the crow's talons."

"Could've been _days_," Patches said.

"It could have been _years_," Lautrec corrected. "Who knows? That's why we need to find someone."

"Or perhaps you'll _be_ found by someone..." Quelana added, and the three shared an uncomfortable silence as morning came upon Lodran. Patches threw up his hands, shook his head, and walked off towards the bonfire. Lautrec was turning to leave as well when the witch's words halted him. "I wish to take the girl on as my pupil."

He lifted his brow and turned to face her. "The _girl_?"

Quelana's face was set in hard lines. She nodded. "Yes. Abby. I wish to teach her the ways of pyromancy."

"You just told me you wanted to be returned to Blighttown."

"And I do. _With_ the girl." Quelana shifted a bit in her binds and narrowed her eyes upon his face. "Though, I don't expect to be set free so easily. I will accompany you without further protest or attempt to escape until you have reached whatever destination you desire. In return, once we are finished... the girl is mine."

A grin crept up Lautrec's face. "Claiming ownership over our little Chosen cleric girl, are you? You'd turn the poor thing into a pyromancer and I'd have the _two_ of you to worry about setting me ablaze."

"I would strengthen her. Give her guidance and purpose. She would be a powerful ally to the both of us."

"And you are basing this, of course, off yesterday's little trick with the Taurus Demon?" Lautrec questioned.

"That," Quelana admitted, "amongst other things. And of course there is the fact that we both dreamed of her last night."

_Laughing, crying, begging; her face, then Abby's, then her's again. _"How could you possibly know that?" Lautrec demanded.

It was Quelana's turn to grin. "I didn't until just now." When Lautrec frowned, her grin only widened. "You can keep me in captivity for the rest of your days, knight, but you'd only be weakening your party and further endangering _all_ of our lives. Free me and I will stay with you and take the girl on as my student until you no longer need us. That is my offer to you."

Lautrec weighed the witch's words, scratching at the scruff that was starting to emerge from his chin and jawline. Quelana stared at him with her emerald green eyes flicking from one of his to the other, awaiting his answer. _Either she's sincere about taking the girl on and staying with us, _Lautrec thought, _or she's a very good liar. _Either scenario didn't entirely sit well with him. "I know these lands well, witch," he told her, approaching with his shotel. "Don't make me come hunting after you. I might not be as kind as I've been when I find you." With that, he hooked the last coils of rope that bound her and cut them loose. She sat rubbing at her wrists and staring at him until he sheathed the blade and returned to the bonfire.

"That might be the first mistake you've made, friend," Patches said when he'd made his way back, pointing the dagger he'd been running across his whet stone at Quelana. "We'll be picking fireballs out of our asses soon enough. If it comes to it... I _will_ kill the witch." Lautrec simply fixed him with a cold stare and they had no further discussion on the matter.

Abby and Benjamin awoke shortly after: the boy complaining about stiffness in his neck; the girl bright and enthusiastic and even more so when Quelana joined them at the bonfire and told the girl she was to become her trainer. The girl's big blue eyes grew rheumy as a smile came to her pretty face, but when she came to thank Lautrec, he only put a hand up, shook his head, and told her to get ready to move. Their party packed up what little they had quickly, and then he was pointing them in the direction of the sloping hills to the West, and to the Undead Burg where he hoped to find someone... and not some_thing_. Patches took point, Benjamin beside him, and Lautrec made Quelana and Abby follow, taking the rear guard himself while keeping an eye on the witch. As they climbed the broken, worn-down, steps, he took one last look at the shrine, at the empty cage set in the earth, and at the dead bonfire in the middle of it all, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that he'd never seen them again.

They made it to the long and narrow sewer tunnel that would carry them to the Undead Burg without spotting a single hollow. _It's as if all the world has gone and disappeared, leaving only the demons left to reign and rule, _Lautrec thought as they began the ascent of the final flight of stairs. _The demons... and us_.

The sewer tunnel was dark, cold, and smelled like death itself. As they moved slowly through its gullet, Lautrec watched his traveling companions different reactions from his rear post. Patches groaned about the smell and made a rather poor joke about rats and plague. Ben trudged on beside him, quiet and sullen, his short bow swinging at his hip. Quelana kept jumping at every shadow, every sound, and Lautrec could see little kisses of fire threatening to leap from her fingertips each time. She's never been away from Blighttown, and she was rightfully cautious; after all he'd seen, Lautrec was glad to have another set of vigilant eyes holding watch on the dangers of Lordran. Abby had awoken with a smile on her face, and it hadn't faded in the slightest as they marched through sludge and grime. She ran her hand along the walls of the tunnel, commenting on the impressive architecture and comparing it to the homes in Vinheim. Quelana spoke something softly beside her and the girl laughed and replied just as quietly. Lautrec frowned, realizing that if the two were to become teacher and student, their relationship would greatly strengthen. _And then you'll be left with a useless boy and a man who would sooner kick you _down_ a hole then pull you out of one,_ Lautrec thought.

He walked up behind the two of them and took Abby's arm in his hand, pulling her back away from the witch. Quelana stared at him with that guarded, blank, expression of hers, but Lautrec only waited till she moved on again.

"What is it?" Abby asked when travel had resumed.

"It's not wise to let a witch speak to you in such close quarters," Lautrec told her. "Lest you wish to become her slave."

Abby laughed. "Her spell cannot work on me, though."

"Can not? Or has not _yet_? Don't get cocky, girl," Lautrec warned. "You know nothing of the dangers that may await us... or even the ones that walk beside us."

"I'm not afraid," Abby said, her chin lifting just a bit.

"That's the problem. You weren't afraid at the Undead Asylum, either, and you took an arrow to the chest for it. You'd best learn this world is covered in barbs, and if you aren't wary, it will tear you apart."

Abby turned to look upon him and he noted there seemed to be an intellect behind those doe-like eyes of her's. "If this is true, why should I trust _you_?"

Lautrec nodded. "Now you're learning, girl," he said as they approached the end of the tunnel. "You shouldn't."

The Undead Burg was just as empty as the Firelink Shrine had been. The broken and decaying buildings of days gone past stood sentinel all around them; haggard towers of crumbled stone and warped wood hunched beside each other shoulder-to-shoulder. On the northern border, the ancient ramparts of the city watched over them, their tops caked with several feet of snow, their look-out posts and murder holes crumbled into ruins. In the pale sky above, the dead sun rained snow upon them and cold winds ravaged the streets.

"It's beautiful," Abby said in a hushed, reverent, voice.

"It's _shit_ is what is it," Patches corrected her, turning to Lautrec. "Where the hell are all the damned hollow?"

"This place was supposed to be swarmed with them, right?" Benjamin said. "My friends and I often traded stories of the great doom that took the Burg we'd learned from our parents and their parents." He leaped atop a stone barrier guarding the fall to the lower burg and held a hand to his brow. "But there's _nothing_. Were the stories a lie... or is this _world_ a lie?"

Quelana seemed even more uncomfortable beneath all that sky above her. She took Abby by the elbow and held close to the girl. "We should not be here. This place feels... wrong."

"We're exposed out here," Lautrec said, pointing ahead. "If you all want to sit and speculate, do it with your backs to a wall. Move."

And so they moved. He called out instructions to Patches, and the bald men took them over bridges and under archways, through empty and decayed buildings and passages, up stairs and down slopes, and yet all the while as they probed deeper and deeper into the Burg, Lautrec could not shake the feeling that the witch had the right of it: something about the place _was_ wrong.

It was as they neared the tower that would carry them up to the top of the ramparts that Benjamin said, "We're being watched. Building beside the bridge we crossed earlier. Saw movement twice, once before, once just now."

Both Abby and Patches turned to look and Lautrec felt a flush of anger rise to his skin. "And now they know we're aware of it at least," he scolded before turning to the boy, "Are you sure of it?"

Ben nodded. "You all call me useless, but I have a good eye. It's why my father put a bow in my hand when all I wanted was a quill."

"I'll flank back around," Patches said. "Get the drop on the bastard."

"Pointless. They know we're standing here talking about it now," Lautrec said and, without further risk of penalty, turned back to look himself. The building the boy had called out looked as empty and dead as all the others, but there were plenty of windows lining its wall; plenty of shadowed places to peek from. "I want to talk with him. Or her."

"You assume it's a person... and not another demon," Quelana said.

"Demon's know only aggression. They don't stalk, don't wait, don't plan," Lautrec explained. "Whoever's watching... they have their reasons."

"Then what?" Abby asked. "I'd like to speak with someone as well. Perhaps we go call out to them? They didn't attack us, after all. They might mean no harm," but when Lautrec set his eyes upon her, a look of chagrin came upon her and she sighed. "But I suppose... the world is barbed."

Quelana noticed their silent exchange and frowned. "Is that what he told you? Don't let him rob you of your optimism, Abby. It is a warm thing to have in this very cold world."

Abby smiled. "Thank you."

"Touching," Patches said dryly, "but if it's alright with the lot of you, I'd like to get moving before I get an arrow through my ass."

Lautrec opened his mouth to reply when he spotted the movement himself. It had not come from the far building that Benjamin had pointed out, though, it was from a window of the barracks right beside them. "Get down," he commanded, grabbing at Quelana beside him and pulling her to the stone floor beneath them.

"Unhand me," she snapped, turning to make sure Abby had lowered herself as well.

"They are in that building," Lautrec said, gesturing forward.

Patches led Ben out further behind the city parapets, spreading their target zone wide. Lautrec widened his position to the right as well and Quelana ignited her hands. Abby watched on in quiet amazement. "You're outnumbered!" Lautrec shouted, stealing a glance over the top of the parapet. The barracks were still and silent in reply; snow fall trickling from its sills and roof. "We don't want a fight! I only want to know what's happened to Lordran!"

There was a long gap of silence before a reply came back, muffled behind the stone and wood of their hiding place, "Outnumbered, am I? I think not."

The voice was accented peculiarly, and Lautrec found it familiar. He looks to his traveling companions, but none looked any more sure than he was. He stole another peek out and shouted, "What do you mean by that?"

Another lingering silence, then, "The sun falls. The dogs will come. I am your only solace. You do as I say."

Patches snorted laughter from further down the parapets. "Don't play the fool with us, friend! Dawn broke not one hour ago! We have plenty of day left to escape whatever 'dogs' you speak of coming."

After the now-expected silence, the voice spoke, "Then perhaps you really _are_ some other worldly travelers. The days run short and the nights grow long in Lordran. Look to the sky and see the truth of it."

Lautrec lifted his gaze skywards. Snow fell to his brow, winds raked through his hair, and a chill took his spine. The man was right; the pale sun had already begun its fall towards the western horizon. "...impossible," he muttered.

"You do as I say, travelers, and you live through the night. Or you deny me and the dogs take you, though to call these beasts 'dogs' may be unfair. They are monsters, spawns of the darkness itself, and they seek only to ravage and destroy. Take your chances with them in the night... or disarm yourselves and throw your weapons to me. Choose quickly. Night comes and with it... death."

Lautrec glanced to his left and saw his traveling companions were all looking towards him. For all their complaints and refusals and anger at his commands, when it was decision-making time, they still looked to him as their leader. His decision was easy: he needed answers and was intent on gathering them and so he stood, unsheathed his shotels, and hurled them up to the raised platform outside the barracks. Patches cursed, but did the same, Ben and Abby afterwards. Quelana had no weapon so she disarmed no weapon, but Lautrec and her shared a look and she quelled the fire in her hands, pulling them back up into her robes. _Our secret_, he thought, and her nod seemed to agree with him.

"Smart man," the voice said. "Now put your hands on your head and walk back the way you came. Do it quickly if you want to live."

As Lautrec marched, he finally placed the strange voice. It was Domhnall of Zena, the merchant and collector of rare items, and now his life laid in the man's hands.

And in the sky, darkness was coming fast.

Coming for all of them.


	8. Chapter 8

The pale blue sun was falling beneath the distant hills to the West when Abby and her traveling companions were led down into the lower Undead Burg; the mysterious voice guiding them urging them to make haste before nightfall, lest they be devoured by 'the horrors'. The peculiarly accented man's voice seemed to call to them from windows and alleyways, from rooftops and parapets, and yet they never spied a glimpse of him; at least, Abby had not. The lower Burg was very much like the upper Burg-haggard, crumbling, empty and forlorn-and so when the voice finally halted them at a big, rounded, wooden door, Abby felt relief wash over her. She didn't like the emptiness of the streets. It reminded her of her cell in the Undead Asylum, and of sadness.

"Now wait there a moment while I come and unlock the door," the voice spoke from some unseen nook or cranny and then went silent.

As their party stood waiting, Quelana stepped beside Abby and took her elbow in her grasp. When Abby turned, she saw a look of fear and concern wrinkling the witch's face beneath the dark hood of her robes as her eyes darted from place to place in the streets, cautious. Abby smiled, finding it humorous that Quelana was such a powerful pyromancer and yet feared so much, and laid a hand on the witch's own. "We're okay," she whispered. Quelana nodded, but the apprehensive look did not fade. Lautrec shifted from foot to foot, resting his hands on his hips one moment, his elbows the next, then finally dropping them to his sides and pacing. The knight was clearly uncomfortable without his hooked blades at his sides. The mystery man had commanded them to disarm themselves back in the upper sect of the Burg, and Lautrec had seemed on edge ever since. Patches appeared mostly disinterested, chewing on a leaf of grass and digging the dirt from beneath his fingernails with the point of his dagger. Ben looked like... well, _Ben_: sullen and agitated and tired. Abby offered him her smile as well, but Benjamin scoffed at it and turned away.

Something mechanical shifted behind the wooden door and it slowly rocked back on its hinged. "Come," the voice within commanded. Lautrec looked from the door to the rest of them, displeasure apparent on his face, yet sighed and became the first to step forward. Patches hung beside the door and motioned the rest of them to follow, the bald man himself taking up the rear.

The room within was just as cold as the streets. As Abby stepped inside, she saw the floor was laid with the same chipped stone as well, and the dingy wooden walls were warped and splintered all around them. Nothing else awaited in the small square except a long stretch of ceiling that ended with a rusty ladder hanging from the lip of a wooden platform. On the platform, their mysterious guide stood watching with his hands on his hips, his head cocked to the side. At first, Abby thought he might have been a demon, but upon a moment's further reflection, she saw that it was only a helm that covered his head; bronze-cased with two twisting horns that led spiraling points away from his brow, beneath them a pair of bifocals hung over eyeslits. On his upper body he wore a shoulder mantle of pale pink with blue decoration, and a necklace of varying coins hung from his neck, the copper and tin circles clinking off each other as he breathed. "Aye, siwmae," that strangely-accented voice called down to them. "And a good day to you."

Abby smiled, finding the man's voice pleasantly amicable, and returned the greeting. "A good day to you, kind sir," but Lautrec fixed her with an icy look and she quickly pressed her lips together.

"I am Domhnall of Zena," he told them. "And you... you lot are about the strangest company I've come across in the Burg in... a very long time. Your names?"

"Are none of your concern," Lautrec answered for them. "We've disarmed and let you lead us all the way down here among the wretched ruins of this city, and the only reason is because I seek answers. I intend to get them, and I'd prefer them sooner rather than later, so if we could skip these little pleasantries-"

"Ah, but the pleasantries are all that separate us from the savage monsters that inhabit this world," Domhnall explained. "Our civility is a ladder, much like this one," he said, clapping the rusted ladder at his knees, "and only by climbing it do we distance ourselves from the lesser things that lurk below."

Abby saw the impatience draw the knight's face into hard lines. "Then lower the ladder and let us climb so that we may stand on... equal footing."

"Is that a threat, good sir?" Domhnall questioned. "I only asked for your names."

"And you asked that we disarm," Lautrec pointed out. "And that we follow your, blindly, down here. Now you ask for the last bit of use we have: our information. What comes next? Your men rush in behind us and take daggers to our throats?"

Soft laughter came from within the man's bronze helm. "You are one cautious fellow, my friend. I assure you, I live here alone. It has only been through a similar caution that I've survived for as long as I have. I only wish to know my guests a bit before I invite them into the last place of solace that remains to me in this very cold world of ours."

Lautrec's face only darkened. "If you think there are no other ways to reach you then that ladder, you are mistaken," he warned. "Now answer my questions."

"You know, I don't think I care for your demeanor, friend," Domhnall said, and for the first time, Abby heard some of the amicability run out of his voice.

She'd heard enough. "I am Abby of Vinheim," she said, stepping forward. Lautrec's hand darted out to grab her arm and silence her, but she twisted away. "_This_ is the knight Lautrec of Carim. This man is Patches. This one, Benjamin. Both he and myself are undead and we were rescued from the Undead Asylum by the rest of our party." She turned to Quelana, her pale face hidden beneath her cloak, and considered lying for only a moment. The man had been too kind, though, and he deserved honesty in return. "And this is Quelana. She is the daughter of the Witch of Izalith and the Mother of Pyromancies. And my teacher," Abby added and Quelana smiled. Abby turned her gaze back up to the man as Lautrec glared at her, fuming. "We are simple travelers, kind sir, and we seek only refuge from the coming night and to exchange conversation. You have been sweet enough to us so far and I apologize for our hostility, but we have faced many dangers on the road behind us, and so we approach every step with apprehension on the road _before_ us. We certainly did not mean to offend."

The entire room drew silent then. Abby was aware of Lautrec's hard stare, but she ignored it, focusing instead on the man above. After a moment, his hands came up, gripped his helm by the horns, and lifted it from his head. The face beneath was round and of fair complexion. A shaggy mop of auburn hair covered his head, a light dusting of freckles on his cheeks, and most importantly: a smile on his face. He pulled the bifocals from his helm and tucked them onto the bridge of his freckled nose. "Well, then," he said, kicking the ladder down to them. "Welcome to my home."

"Thank you, kind sir," Abby said, stepping beside the ladder and turning back to take Quelana's hand.

"You handle yourself with maturity years beyond you, sweet girl," Quelana told her, smiling and rubbing her fingers.

Lautrec muttered, "There will come a day when your trust in others will be your undoing, girl."

"And a day when your _mistrust_ will be yours, I'm sure," Abby retorted.

The two held each other's eyes for a moment, Abby with no intention of looking away, Lautrec seemingly of the same mindset, but then Patches shouldered between them and took up the first rung of the ladder saying, "Hope he's got something to bloody _eat _up there," and the rest of them soon followed.

Domhnall of Zena's 'home' was a welcome change from the barren wastes that plagued the rest of the Burg. After a long climb, they reached the platform, walked beneath an arched doorway, and entered a finely furnished room on the top floor of the building. The warmth of a burning hearth was immediately apparent, and Abby watched as Quelana was quick to move beside the flames and fall to her knees before them, clasping her hands reverently and appreciatively. The walls up here were polished oak and varying banners of bright colors hung in regular intervals. The floor was carpeted in an exquisite, maroon, rug that was trimmed with silver and decorated with golden rose petals on its face. Tables and chairs stood lined against the far wall, rows of potted plants and flowers (though both had withered and died) clutched to the bottom of a long, opened, windowsill at the other end. Looking out, Abby could see the snow falling gently a dozen feet down to the upper portion of the Burg they'd first arrived in, their foot tracks already vanished in a fresh white coating. The sky had darkened considerably, and Domhnall's little fiery hearth cast a soft and orange glow upon the walls, the window, and part of the Burg beyond.

"It is a very nice home you have here, sir," Abby told their host, turning and offering a smile.

"Please, girl, call me Domhnall," he said, returning the smile. "And thank you. I've made due with what I have." The man turned to Patches and pointed out to the balcony. "I have some meat hanging outside if you all wish to eat. It will have to be cooked." When Patches asked what kind of meat it was, Domhnall's face darkened only a bit as he said, "Not the _good_ kind, I'm afraid, but I've been eating it for weeks now and _I'm_ still standing, so... it can't be all that bad."

Patches disappeared to the balcony and returned a moment later with a hunk of very dark meat in his hands. He sniffed at it, shrugged, and brought it to the fire.

Lautrec paced around the man's home with his arms folded across his golden chest plate, narrowing his gray eyes on each and everything the man owned. Domhnall took notice, but did not move to stop him, instead laughing and shaking his mop of hair as he took a seat beside the table. "Join me... Abby, was it?"

"Yes," Abby confirmed, seating herself across the table and folding her hands atop it. "Thank you for your hospitality."

Domhnall nodded. "I haven't seen humans in the Burg in... a very long time. You startled me quite a bit when I heard your voices. The last ones through here were bandits looking to pillage whatever remained to this cursed place." He looked to the window and his brow creased above his bifocals. "The dogs took them, though."

"What are these 'dogs'?" Ben asked, moving near Quelana and sliding down to the floor to rest near the fire. "Are they just feral beasts? My brothers and I used to hunt wild dogs outside the woods near my home."

"These creatures are no longer 'dogs', really. I only call them such out of familiarity and habit, I suppose," Domhnall said. "They are spawns of the darkness itself. They are mutilated and vicious and seek only to ravage and kill." He grimaced. "They don't even _eat_ their victims. It isn't about survival. They only tear them apart and move on..."

Lautrec had finally stopped pacing, seemingly satisfied no trap awaited them, and marched to the table to take a seat between Dom and herself. "Alright, merchant, start talking. What the _hell_ has happened to Lordran. What has become of the sun? How long has the cold and the snows been coming? Why are the days short and the nights queerly long? Where are all the _hollows_?"

Domhnall raised a brow. "Surely you jest?"

Lautrec's unwavering stare was his answer.

Dom turned to Abby. "Is he serious? None of you know the answers to _any_ of those questions?"

Abby shook her head.

"Where have you _been_ for the last few months? Down in the catacombs? The Tomb of the Giants? The Great Hollow?"

"Somewhere... _else_," Lautrec said. "So this has been happening for _months_ now?"

Domhnall shrugged. "Well, yes. Since the Chosen Undead failed."

Lautrec's mouth fell agape. Quelana, for the first time since they'd arrived, turned her gaze from the fire and set it upon the man. Both Ben and Patches forgot temporarily about the meat they were tending to and stared at one another before turning towards the table. _I'm the Chosen_, Abby thought, clutching at her suddenly-dry throat. _How could I have failed already_?

Domhnall, upon witnessing their joint reaction, finally looked to realize that their party really _didn't_ know what had happened in Lordran. He swallowed, ran a hand through his hair, and took a breath. "You... you really don't know?"

"Tell us," Lautrec urged him.

Domhnall looked to each of their faces in turn before staring down upon his own hands. "A hero came to Lordran a few months back. The few men and women scattered about took to calling him the 'Chosen Undead'; a great champion that would restore the fires in the Kiln of the First Flame and bring upon a new age of light, one which allow the world to march onwards-to _live_-and to flourish beneath the dawn of a period of peace and warmth." A smile had crept up Domhnall's freckled face as he spoke, but now it quickly faded. "But the Chosen failed us... and _we_ failed _him_."

"How?" Lautrec demanded.

"Griggs."

"The _mage_?"

"Aye."

Lautrec frowned. "What does he have to do with anything?"

"The man went mad," Dom told them, a look of disgust coming to his face. "He was there when Logan and the Chosen killed Seath and took the Archives for themselves. He was _there_ beside the Chosen for the rest of his journey. But somewhere along the way the mage lost his mind, as most mages do, I suppose, and began seeing a... _different_ outcome for Lordran." He paused, but when no one interrupted, he nodded and went on. "The man came to understand that the Chosen's true power did not reside in his will to succeed or his strength or his dexterity or even his courage. It resided in his ability to be reborn in the flames every time he failed."

Abby thought back to when she had died at the Asylum. It had been the most odd sensation of her life, like drowning in liquid flame, and it was there and gone in such a brief instant... then she had returned. She didn't understand it, didn't understand _any_ of this really, but she knew the fire was important. Maybe the most important thing in the world. "A Chosen is given the chance to fight on even in absolute failure," she said. "That is our, er, _their_ strength?"

Domhnall nodded. "Whatever sickness took Griggs' mind, it drove him to search for a way to disempower the Chosen. He found his way. If there are no flames to reborn _from_... then the Chosen can die. Just like you and I."

Lautrec shook his head. "No. There's no way to remove all the bonfire's of this world."

"There is," Domhnall corrected. "You just have to remove all the bonfire's _keepers_."

Abby watched the strangest look she'd seen yet come across the knight's face. He looked angry one moment, afraid the next. His hands balled to fists. "They're dead then? The Fire Keepers? _All_ of them?"

"All but one now."

Lautrec swallowed, stared at the man. "It's her, isn't it? Anastacia...?"

Domhnall shrugged. "I do not know. I know one Fire Keeper escaped and Logan had a man in a top hat and a mask hunting the keeper down to protect them from Griggs. They passed through her a fortnight ago. The captive was beneath a hood."

Lautrec sat quietly for a long time, his eyes locked ahead on nothing at all, then he spoke. "It's her. Where is she?"

"I'd imagine where the _rest_ of the world has seemed to up and move to," Dom said, nodding towards the open window at his back. "To The Duke's Archives. To Logan."

"Hold on there," Patches interrupted from beside the hearth. He was carefully circling the haunch of meat pierced by his dagger over the flames, cooking it. "Before you take this twisted little tale any further, how are you supposed to snuff all the bonfires out? Some don't even _have_ a Keeper. Seem 'em myself, I did."

"They do," Domhnall told him. "Not _seeing_ them and them not being _present_ are two very different things."

"Where are they?" Abby asked.

Dom looked displeased to explain, but he pressed on. "A Fire Keeper is much like a _fire_ itself. They need only oxygen to sustain their life. Many of the bonfire's around Lordran, in order to ensure their safety, have-well, _had_-their Keeper's buried alive in the soil beneath them... only a thin tube of piping sticking out somewhere so that they can breath."

Abby face contorted with horror. "That's _horrible_!"

"How cruel..." Quelana whispered across the room.

"Every single bonfire?" Lautrec questioned. "Every _cursed_ one has a Fire Keeper near it?"

Domhnall nodded. "That is what Griggs and Logan learned studying the endless tomes of books and documentation in the Archives. Griggs then used that information to hunt them all down, dig them all up... and end all their lives."

Silence gripped the room as Abby imagined each of her traveling companions was thinking on the sheer horror of what they were learning.

"And so Griggs got his wish," Domhnall explained. "All the fires in the world gone out... the last Keeper too far from their flame to make any difference. When the Chosen ventured down into the Kiln of the First Flame, Gwyn killed him." Dom's shoulders slumped as he shook his head. "And the Chosen never returned."

"Then Gwyn lives?" Lautrec asked.

"Yes. For how much longer, though, one could not say. The days grow short and the nights long and soon enough all the light in the world will have withered away, just as Gwyn's life withers with it."

"We light the flame," Abby said, a sudden surge of hope rising in her chest. The room did not seem to share her enthusiasm. "We just light the flame, right?"

"It's not that simple," Lautrec explained. "Gwyn must die."

"And the Chosen must sacrifice their soul to the flame to kindle it," Domhnall continued. "The Chosen is dead."

"The Chosen _lives_," Abby said. "For I am her."

Dom lifted his eyes to her, looked to Lautrec-who said nothing-and back. "I don't understand, my lady."

"Tell him, Lautrec," Abby urged. "Tell him what you saw at the Undead Asylum."

"When you mention the Asylum earlier, I said nothing," Dom interrupted. "But, sweet girl, you must be mistaken. You lot could _not_ have come from the Undead Asylum."

"Why not?" Ben piped up.

Domhnall sighed. "Because it sunk into the ocean three months ago."

Abby frowned, looking to Lautrec. The knight again did not speak, only sat staring at his hands, brow creased. Patches had forgotten about his meat in lieu of this new information and had burnt one side black. Quelana had turned back to the fire in the hearth, silent. Seeing no aid in any of them, Abby slumped into her chair and stared down at her feet. "...what's happened to us?"

"What is happening at the Duke's Archives?" Lautrec finally spoke, ignoring her question.

"_Logan_ is what's happening at the Archives," Domhnall said, a hint of disdain in his voice.

"You speak of Big Hat Logan, correct?"

"Oh, you wouldn't want to be caught calling him that now," Dom told him. "Heard he had the last man to utter those words castrated. But, yes, the same Logan. He helped the Chosen destroy Seath the Scaleless when the hero failed time and time again. Then? Then the man started losing himself in the wealth of information contained within the Archive's walls. I was there, you know? Briefly. At some point I think all of Lordran was there. When the cold came, that is. They have resources there, wood, fire, food, water, wine. What good it will do them when the long night falls however, I do not know."

"Why did you leave?" Abby asked.

"Because Logan is mad," Dom answered curtly. "He experiments on the _living_! He found ways to command _golems_ to his will! He spends the nights reading by candlelight and whispering madness to himself, and the days wandering the Archive's halls aimlessly. They're all following a damned _mad _man up there! I urged them to follow me when I left, but... the comforts a set of rather _large_ stone walls offer a man are enticing. When I finally set out... none followed."

"Who is there?" Patches wondered.

"Everyone," Domhnall answered. "Except me and all of you, apparently. I used to-" He went abruptly silent, cocking his ear towards the window. Whatever he heard caused the man to stand and spin towards the open balcony. Outside, night had taken Lordran, and the velvety blue darkness was draped across the streets of the Burg. "We must lower our voices," he spoke in a hushed, frightened, way before turning to Patches. "We can keep the fire, but it must be shrunk."

"What's happening?" Lautrec asked, and Abby saw his hand instinctively grope for a shotel that was not there.

"Dogs are coming," Domhnall said, closing the window shutters to a slit. "They can't get up here but it's best not to attract their attention and get them all riled up."

"You're _sure_ they can't get in here?" Lautrec asked. "Positive?"

"Yes, yes," Dom said. "We're safe." He looked to each of their party in turn. "Do you want to see them?"

The balcony outside was dusted with snow, but an awning overhead kept it from growing unruly. Domhnall had Lautrec strip his heavy armor from his body, and then led them all outside onto it. At the doorway, the man dropped to his belly and crawled out to the wooden lip of the balcony's floor. Lautrec followed in the same manner, Patches and then Benjamin after him. Quelana was lingering beside the hearth at the now-dimmed flames hovering as close to them as she could. Abby went to her, took her by the hand, and gently tugged towards the balcony. "Come," she urged. "It's not going anywhere." Quelana looked from it to Abby, swallowed, and nodded.

They dropped to their bellies like the men before them and squirmed forward till all six of them were lined up in a row on the balcony's wooden floor. The boards below creaked and Lautrec asked if it would support their weight. Domhnall shushed him, put a finger to his lips, and pointed off towards the North. "They come," he whispered.

At first, Abby wasn't sure what he was pointing at. The streets of the Burg were very dark, only droplets of moonlight creeping out over the stone and wood structures, but then she spotted something moving down a flight of stairs. It looked like a liquidy shadow that was more _sliding_ down the steps then walking them. Then, before the thing took full form, she heard the growling.

"I don't like this," Quelana said, and Abby could feel the witch shaking beside her.

"Shhh!" Domhnall pleaded. "Just watch."

More shadows were creeping onto the streets. Some from the towering battlements of the city's walls, some from the lower Burg itself, some seeming to materialize from the stone itself. The growling Abby had heard earlier had grown to a chorus of rumbling which finally broke with a loud, shrill, howl. Another howl followed, and another, and soon enough the whole city was alive with the dreadful song of the shadow beasts.

"I have to return to Izalith," Quelana said. "My sisters... something very bad has fallen over this world."

"Would you shut her up!?" Patches hissed. "They're _looking_!"

Abby squinted and saw the shadow things were moving their way. One passed beneath a sliver of moonlight, and for a brief, terrifying, instant, Abby saw the beast's head was all _mouth_. It didn't seem to have eyes or ears or anything else... just lips and teeth; massive, sharp, teeth.

"Abby, come _with_ me," Quelana pleaded. "You and I will escape this madness."

"_Quiet!_" Ben hissed.

Abby reached an arm around Quelana's shoulder and lowered her hand over the witch's mouth. "_Shhhh_. I... I will protect you," she whispered, though the words sounded funny when spoken from _her_ to a witch with the power of flame that Quelana possessed. "Alright?"

Quelana's eyes were growing rheumy, but the witch nodded. Abby gave her a smile and squeezed her hand, but kept her other hand over the witch's mouth.

"We're spotted," Lautrec said.

Abby looked back to the streets and gasped when she saw just how many dogs had taken to the Burg. At first glance she thought maybe _dozens_ but as her eyes flicked across the area, she thought the number might be closer to a _hundred_. Several were limping through the shadows towards the clearing below their balcony, their oddly-shaped heads angled upwards; _all_ growling.

Quelana whimpered into Abby's hand, and Abby rubbed at the witch's arm. "It's okay," she told her.

"I think it would be a good time to head back in," Patches suggested.

"I think you're right," Domhnall agreed.

And with that, they started the odd task of crawling backwards into the house. Ben was first, and he helped Patches, Lautrec, and Domhnall in after him. Abby was still too nervous to release Quelana, so she kept hold of her as they lifted to their knees and crept back inside. It was just as they crossed the wooden border that the howling started below.

"What the _hell _are those things?" Patches asked when they were all inside and it was safer to make noise. "I ain't never seen dogs look like that. Where are there bloody _eyes_?"

"I told you they were no dogs," Domhnall said, glancing through the slit in the window shutters. "And now they're all coming this way. It's a good thing they can't get in here, or it would be the end of us." He looked at Quelana. "A bad time to have a nervous breakdown."

Abby let the witch go and Quelana lowered her head. "I... I am not brave. I am a coward. I fled from my home when it went to ruins. Fled from my family."

"You _are_ brave," Abby assured her. "You command _fire_. Would it really obey if its master was a coward?"

"They aren't leaving," Lautrec interrupted. He was pressed to the corner of the balcony doorway, peering out. "Only _gathering_. Probably isn't the best idea to talk anymore. Let us rest for the night. Do the demon's always leave by dawn?"

Domhnall nodded. "Yes. At least we can take comfort in _that_."

"Good," Lautrec said. "Because on the morrow, I'll have more questions."

"And I shall have more answers," Dom told him. "The story isn't quite done yet."

Domhnall showed them resting quarters in the attic of the household. A short, cracked, ladder led up through a little box, and then the peaked ceilings of the attic greeted them. There were blankets stored in barrels at the far end, and all six of them gathered enough to keep warm in the cold of the night. Abby laid her blanket down beside a little, oval, window that spilled moonlight inside, and Quelana asked to lay beside her. Abby welcomed her, glad for the company, and that was how their party spent the first true night of their adventure; huddled together in the attic of a man with a horned helm and bifocals, listening to the howling of the dogs gathered outside, waiting out the long curtain of darkness ahead.

Abby did not fall asleep for some time, and when she finally did her dreams were dark, empty, and hollow; hollow like her, like Ben, and like Lordran itself would become... if she did not save it.


	9. Chapter 9

The blizzard had swept upon them suddenly and violently, and when it had come it was relentless in its attack. They were blind beneath its swirling curtains, deaf within its howling cries, and endlessly encumbered by its residual carpeting underfoot. By the time night had fallen, the world was a sheet of icy white hail that took on a haunted glow beneath the moon's pale light. Yet still they trudged onwards; still they obeyed his command. Though the deeper they went, the harder they pressed on, the storm only grew more fierce, its cold hands of frost swelling around them like the belly of a pregnant women; a child of pure ice waiting to burst from within and take them all to whatever hells awaited the frozen and dead.

It was Laurentius who came to him first. Solaire had fallen behind the party in his heavy plate armor, and so the hooded pyromancer had to backtrack through his own entrenched path in the snow to reach him. He looked like an ethereal spirit coming in the night, the snowfall playing tricks with his figure as he marched near. "_Solaire, you fool!_" He shouted to be heard over the winds. "_You'll kill us all if you insist upon this cursed journey! Gods be good, let us turn _back_!_"

"_Back is death, friend_!" Solaire bellowed his reply. "_Forward will be our only solace from this wretched storm!_" Ahead, faint and blurry figures stood watching beside the mighty trees of the Darkroot Forest, figures that Solaire knew were just as resistant to go on as the man before him. He returned his gaze to Laurentius and clapped him on the shoulder. "_We will live, friend. The sun watches over us even when _we_ can not watch over _it_. Praise it, friend. Praise it and its warmth will guide you!_"

Laurentius glared out from beneath his hooded cloak, his eyes squinted against the wind's wrath, his beard and mustache layered with a sheet of icicles. "_Solaire... we aren't asking,_" the pyromancer told him, igniting the glove he wore over his right hand in a spark of red and orange flame.

Solaire looked from the glove to the figures standing sentinel over Laurentius' shoulder, to the pyromancer himself. "_Mutiny then is it?_" He asked, letting his gauntlet fall to the hilt of his straight sword.

"_It doesn't have to be, knight,_" Laurentius explained. "_We are going back to the Archives. To hell with Logan and his mad mission. We can take you as our hostage. Tell Logan there _was_ mutiny and that we forced you back at the point of our blades. Surely he will understand. No one has to die in this bloody storm here tonight, Solaire! Listen to reason!_"

Even in the screaming winds of the blizzard, Solaire could hear the smooth _shck _of his sword coming free from its sheath. "_There will be no such deception. I intend to stay loyal to the mission. If you are deserters, I shall treat you as such._"

Laurentius shook his head with a sigh. "_You foolish knight_..." He raised a fist into the air, and the blurry figures behind him began to flank out to his sides, surrounding Solaire. "_It didn't have to be like this_."

"_Of course it did,_" Solaire replied, widened his stance and raising his shield to his chest. "_All things must be the way they are, or else they would not be at all. Praise the sun._" He pointed the tip of his sword forward, bowed, and moved in for attack.

They had set out the previous night, early enough before dawn that the black sky was their traveling companion for the better part of three hours. Solaire had hand-chosen his fellowship from the capable men residing in the Archive's barracks, though now he thought perhaps he had chosen poorly; the lot were as craven as the hollow. He'd taken along the pyromancer Laurentius, the knight of Catarina, Siegmeyer, the knight of thorns, Kirk, and, though it went against his better judgement, the fool who called himself the 'Marvelous' Chester. None of them had seemed particularly thrilled with the notion of trudging through the cold and dark nightmare that Anor Londo had become to reach the firelink shrine and discover what the great crow had brought forth to Lordran in its talons, but none of them had flat out refused him either.

Chester had taken point-the reason Solaire had brought him along in the first place-and the rest followed along bundled heavily in leathers and cloaks and wool undergarments to shield them from the cold. They'd left the archives at night, and it was still dark when they had crawled the narrow passage that dropped them to the inner city of Anor Londo. The going was slow and quiet and cautious. Overhead, encircling the city's Great Cathedral, every one of them was aware that an army of hollow, perhaps in the _thousands_, had gathered; for what purpose no one knew. The journey through the dark streets of Anor Londo was brief and mostly uneventful, though they had to lie in wait as a squadron of half a dozen hollows who were stalking the alleyways of the city like a gang of decaying bandits passed them by. Chester led them through hidden paths Solaire had never _heard_ of, let alone seen, and by the time the beautiful sun was clawing its way up over the Eastern mountains, they had come across a cracked and haggard chasm in the city's outer wall. Beyond it, a maddeningly steep fall of forest that would carry them down to the Darkroot Basin, and then to their destination beyond it.

It was a they reached the bottom of the long embankment and the sun was already rushing back to hide in the West when the storm started to pick up. By the time they'd reached truly flat ground, the forest thick and tall around them as night set in, the blizzard had turned the air to ice, the wind to a chilled dagger, the ground to a heavy swamp of snow that grasped at their ankles as they marched on.

_And now here I stand, _Solaire thought as he pressed forward to attack the mutinous pyromancer before him. _With a party of craven deserters, and I'm like to die without the Sun on my back. A true pity. _

Laurentius stepped back and further ignited his glove as Kirk and Siegmeyer flanked out wider. Solaire knew the pyro was the least armored, and made the man his target as he pushed through the heavy snow underfoot to reach him.

_Aahwoooooooooooooooooo_.

The horn blaring over the screaming blizzard winds froze all four of them in their tracks. Solaire swallowed his trepidation and stole a glance up the near cliffside to his left. Chester was up there. The man had scouted ahead and told them he was going to find a vantage point to get a look at what awaited them in the forest and beyond. The horn he carried slung around his neck by a little silver necklace was to be used only for warning of attack.

_Aahwoooooooooooooooooooooooo._

Laurentius had been staring towards the cliffs as well, but now he turned his wide-eyed gaze back on Solaire. "We are under attack."

Solaire nodded, but did not drop his shield nor his sword. He kept his eyes on the flanking knights who were still widening out around him.

Laurentius quelled the flame encasing his glove before raising the fist in the air and opening his palm. The flank halted. "Battle would only weaken us _all_ for whatever comes forth in these woods to pick us apart. I ask for truce."

"And I grant you none," Solaire said. "You are craven and you are deserters."

"I'll kill him," the knight of thorns voice came quiet and calm from beneath his spiked helm. The man was large and when he moved forward in the snowfall, his dark figure seemed to grow as tall as the trees; pointed thorns spiraled from his shoulder mantle and gauntlets. "You deal with whatever else comes."

"This is foolish!" Siegmeyer pleaded with them. The knight was large in his own way... though certainly not nearly as intimidating. "Solaire, please. Laurentius... this is not necessary. We are traveling _companions_! Let us face whatever threat comes _together_!"

"Silence, Siegmeyer," Solaire threatened. "You play the role of a honest knight, but were ready to drive your blade through my gut not a minute earlier. You are as bad as the knight of thorns there. _Worse_, really. At least the dishonorable fool knows what he is."

"We weren't going to kill you, Solaire," Siegmeyer explained. "That was never our intent. We only wished to save our own lives before this cursed storm-"

_Aahwooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_.

"This is madness! We _must_ regroup and take up defensive position!" Laurentius shouted. "Kill us all if you wish, Knight of the Sun, but you will be killing men who wish you no harm." He turned to the others and nodded. "There is a cave near. We make for it. _Quickly_."

Siegmeyer nodded and the two of them went wading through the knee-high snow as fast as the storm would allow. The knight of thorns held his ground, barbed straight sword clutched in his black gauntlet, but after a moment even _he_ turned and joined them. _Craven,_ Solaire thought, sheathing his own blade. _The lot of them! _And yet, he moved to follow them anyway.

Chester came sliding down a steep embankment, tufts of snow kicking up in his trail, and halted beside two thick trees standing guard at the hill's base. The man's top hat and jester's mask were still perfectly in place when he fixed his gaze upon Solaire. "Where are the rest?"

"Did you know of their treason, Chester? Tell it true," Solaire demanded.

"Yes," Chester confirmed casually enough. "Now where _are_ they. There are dogs coming."

"_Dogs_?"

Chester nodded, pointing South. "From the way of the Undead Burg. Lots of them," then upon a moment's reflection, "At least I _think_ they're dogs." He rose from the ground, shook snowfall from his hat and shoulders, and stared out into the maze of trees. "I see their path. We'd best stick together if we all intend to live through this night."

"You were going to murder me," Solaire snapped. "Kill me in cold blood!"

Chester fixed his eyes on him and, though his mouth was hidden by the mask, Solaire could _feel_ the sly grin beneath fixed upon the man's face. "Only if you were going to insist on being so... _knightly_. Either way, you'll die without us now. I'd suggest you follow."

"Wait!" Solaire demanded, but Chester had already gone running off in pursuit of the other's trail. Solaire stood, cold and alone, in the snowfall staring after them. He turned his gaze South, towards the Burg, and held it there. _Praise the sun, give me strength, _he thought. _What do I do? Take my chances with those treacherous cravens... or the dogs?_

That's when he saw them: sleek, snarling, figures pawing their way down the distant hillside, skin as black as pure ebony, movement as liquid as shadow. They slipped in and out of clusters of trees, their massive heads and gaping jaws lined with fangs snapping at branches and snowfall. Solaire counted maybe a dozen coming down the hill... but when he glanced further to the left, he saw another _two_ dozen seeping up from under the Burg's wall.

"Sun save us," he muttered, turned on his heel, and gave pursuit after the men who'd tried to kill him.

The 'cave' Laurentius spoke of was really just a large chunk of rock taken out of the side of the cliffs that loomed over the Darkroot Basin. It tunneled into the earth, narrowing down to a fine point as it went, and came to an abrupt end a few dozen feet back. Solaire came upon it, stumbled beneath the tangle of moss and vines that draped its passageway and found the hard, snowless, rock underfoot within a welcome feel beneath his boots.

His eyes had not yet even adjusted to the darker lighting the cave housed, masked from the moonlight outside, before arms fell upon his shoulders and threw him to the ground. His helm smacked off the rocks, twisting around on his head and blinding him. He reached for his blade, but strong hands wrapped his forearms and held him in place as someone else removed the blade for him. "Cravens!" He shouted from within his twisted helm. "Unhand me!"

They did, but not before stripping his shield from his arm as well. Solaire clambered to his feet, fixed his helm, and stood before the four men around him, feeling naked and vulnerable without sword or shield at his side.

"Kill him," Kirk bellowed in his deep, calm, voice.

"No!" Siegmeyer pleaded. "Are you _mad_!? He's unarmed! He is no harm to any of us!"

Kirk shrugged. "I don't like him."

"You _can't_ kill him," Chester said. The man in the top hat was at the back of the cave, taking a cloth along his crossbow, cleaning and checking every mechanical part on the weapon. "He is Logan's lapdog. We'd never get back inside the Duke's Archives without him. Kill the _knight_... and our fate is to freeze to death out _here_."

Laurentius ignited his glove and fixed it upon Solaire's chest. "Tie him up. Don't make me burn you, knight."

"You treacherous fools!" Solaire wailed, raising his fists. "I will fight you to the-"

It was the knight of thorns who stepped forward in the dark. It was _him_ who drove his mailed gauntlet across Solaire's helm hard enough to strip the thing from his head and to loosen two of his teeth beneath the cheek. Solaire fell to the ground, coughing the blood from his mouth, and Kirk took hold of his arms, wrenching and twisting at them until they came together behind his back. "Cravens..." Solaire muttered, but even speaking hurt his jaw where the man had struck him.

"You call me craven again," Kirk's bassy voice warned over his shoulder. "And I'll take your head off its shoulders and bring it to Logan as a trophy."

They made quick work of binding his wrists and elbows and torso and then tossed him aside to lie on the cave floor, bound and useless. Solaire felt his jaw swelling up and hoped the man in the dark armor hadn't broken it. He wrestled to his back and stared forward to the mouth of the cave, where the howling winds and the falling snow beyond looked like a portal to another world.

"How many mutts are out there?" Kirk asked, crouching low beside the cave entrance and unsheathing his barbed sword.

"They are no mere 'mutts', knight of thorns," Chester corrected him, stepping forward and shouldering his crossbow. "Don't treat them lightly. These things looked like beasts crawled straight from Izalith itself. And there are many. Certainly more than us."

"Can we survive this?" Laurentius questioned, his flaming hand the only beacon of light in the dark cave.

Chester shrugged. "Depends how intent the beasts are on ending us, I suppose."

"I will die to no _dog_," Kirk said.

"Better men have died to less," Chester told him. "Keep your guard up."

The men were very still then and very quiet. Solaire could only watch from his position on the floor of the cave as the rest of them stood guard before that white and blue portal that was the cave's exit. Twice he thought Chester was going to loose a bolt from his crossbow, but both times the man breathed relief and lowered it. The knight of thorns was as still as stone, and when the rest of them seemed to grow apprehensive, Kirk only sat, peering through the eyeslits of his black and thorned helm as calmly as if he were watching a play. It unsettled Solaire.

Finally, Laurentius quelled his flame and stepped away from the entrance. "They've passed. The Gods are good to us today."

"The Gods send a storm of whose magnitude has never been seen before down upon our heads, and you call them _good_?" Chester asked and a snicker burst forth from beneath his mask. "I'd hate to see them do us _bad_."

Kirk stood and sheathed his barbed blade. "Piss on the Gods. Let's eat."

Laurentius got them a little fire going at the back of the cave with his pyromancy, and the four of them sat around the makeshift bonfire, sticking haunches of rabbit and bird out over the flames on the points of their daggers. Solaire could smell the meat cooking and had to fight urges to ask the men for some; he would not beg such honorless scoundrels for _any_thing. He'd rather starve.

"We don't have to treat Solaire this way," Siegmeyer was the first to even _mention_ him as they ate. "He is our friend and our companion."

"He would have stuck me with his sword for simply wishing to preserve my own life," Laurentius said. "He is a danger to us all. And to himself."

"Should kill him," Kirk muttered between bites of his rabbit, and that ended the discussion on Solaire.

It went on like that for awhile, the four of them sharing stories and complaining about the weather and about the mission and about the weather some more as they ate. As the bonfire died down, and the food had all but disappeared, Solaire rolled to his side and was ready to close his eyes and forget about this terrible night. When his eyelids were closed to slits, though, movement at the front of the cave caught his attention and snapped them back open. "Praise the sun," he muttered, desperately trying to wiggle back away from the entrance.

"What are you blabbering on about?" Laurentius asked, but he had only to follow the path of Solaire's eyes to find the answer. "Gods protect us! _Arm yourselves_!"

The dogs that they thought had passed them by earlier had returned. The entrance to the cave was choked with them. Solaire could see by the dim light of what was left of their bonfire that these were no dogs, either. Their muzzles were grown abnormally large, practically shrinking away the rest of their heads, and the teeth within were jagged and crooked and sharp and huge. A half dozen stood lined before the cave, but behind them, Solaire could not even make out the forest - there were too many waiting to follow the leaders of the pack in. All of the beasts were snarling and drooling from their enormous mouths; their beady red eyes were darting from person to person, rolling about insanely, _hungrily_.

"Burn them," Kirk demanded of Laurentius. "Burn the things back to Izalith."

"No!" Solaire commanded from the floor. He craned his neck up to face his captors. "If you go on the offensive, they'll grow aggressive and flood the cave. We'll be swarmed before we take down not ten of them! You have to stay defensive! Pick them off as they come! _Free _me you fools and I will help!"

The lead dog has breached the inside of the cave, and the monster's snarling was catching on the walls and echoing in a queer, haunting, way. His muzzle shook violently as he prodded forward, snapping at the air before him menacingly.

"_Burn them!_" Kirk demanded, his cool demeanor finally broken.

"The knight has the right of it," Chester said, his crossbow fixed upon the nearest beast. "The fire will only awake their rage."

"_My_ rage has awoken," Kirk spat. "Do as I say, pyromancer, or I'll feed _you_ to the things."

"Back! _Back_!" Siegmeyer was shouting. The fat man in his rounded, steel, armor was swinging his big greatsword in sweeping arcs in attempt to keep the dogs at bay. "_Back_ you beasts!"

Yet the beasts did not heed to his threats. More and more were funneling in behind the lead dog, cluttering the cave entrance so tightly they stood shoulder to shoulder.

"Siegmeyer, you grow to close!" Solaire warned the big man. "Return to the bonfire!"

"Back!" Siegmeyer continued shouting. "_Back_!"

Kirk stepped forth from the bonfire. "Here, Knight of Catarina, let me aid your attack." The man in the thorned armor laid his hand on Siegmeyer's shoulder and shoved. The fat knight stumbled forward, caught off balance, and drove his sword to the ground to steady himself. It landed beside a dog with a _thud_ and stuck into the earth. The knight tried pulling it free-

-but then the dogs were on him.

"_No_!" Solaire wailed.

One beast lurched into the air and took the knight's arm in his muzzle. As Siegmeyer moved to free himself, another clamped down around his ankle, sending the man's head back in a scream of pain. The lead dog leaped into the air, found footholds on the fat knight's thighs, and sunk its dagger-like teeth into the spot where his helmet met his breast plate. Blood and flesh exploded outwards as the dog tore back its head.

"You killed him!" Solaire screamed at the knight of thorns. "You _killed_ him!"

Siegmeyer groaned, raised an arm once more to bat the dogs away, and then collapsed to his knees. The beasts were on him immediately, burying their teeth into any exposed flesh at the kinks of the armor and dragging his bloody body back outside.

"Maybe they only wanted a snack," Kirk said. "Maybe I just saved us. The fat old knight _will_ provide quite the feast."

"Murderer..." Solaire muttered, but then had to squeeze his eyes shut and try to picture the sun; the sounds of the dogs feasting outside the cave were too much to handle.

It wasn't long before they returned, though, and _none_ of their anger... of their _hunger_ had seemed to be satiated. The only difference was now their muzzles were painted in Siegmeyer of Catarina's blood.

"It's over," Solaire said. "You will pay in the next life for you crimes, knight of thorns, and you will _still_ die here in this cave tonight."

Laurentius swallowed and spat a burst of combustion at the dogs from his glove. They didn't seem impressed with the attack. "Gods save us... we can't kill them all."

Chester set two additional bolts beside the one nestled in his crossbow's firing mechanism. "No. But we can kill a lot of them."

"I'm not dying to no dogs," Kirk repeated his earlier protest. He set his eyes on Solaire. "But if things get ugly in here... rest assured I _am_ killing _you_, knight."

The dogs pressed inwards, choking the cave entrance once again. Fresh blood dripped from the points of their fangs. _I'm the closest_, Solaire thought. _It is me who they will feast upon first. May the sun shine as brightly in the next world as it once had in this one. Praise it. _The lead dog set its beady eyes on Solaire and opened its jaw.

_Thud - thud - thud_.

"The hell is that?" Kirk snapped.

"Something in the forest," Chester said.

"_What_?" Laurentius asked.

_Thud - thud - thud_, the sound came again, closer, as if some great giant were stalking through Lordran. For one crazed moment, Solaire _did_ think it was a giant, that it was some great physical incarnation of the sun, come to save him for his lifetime of servitude. Then a dog outside yelped, and another howled, and yet _another_ started a howl, but was caught abruptly short with another _thud - thud -thud_. Solaire thought that whatever it was, it sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

The dogs inside the cave began to turn around, their snarls and growls growing more violent and vicious as they did. They funneled back out into the night. Solaire listened intently as whatever battle raged outside took place. Judging by the number of yelps, it did not sound like the dogs were winning.

_Thud - thud -thud_. Was the final sound Solaire heard as the warring died down, and he had put together what it was just as the answer revealed itself at the mouth of the cave.

The crystal golems stood huddled together peering in at their party, the swirling snow dancing around their metallic blue surface, the wind whipping at their hulking shoulders and backs. There were four of them in total, and on the blunt ends of their mighty arms, the blood of the dogs they had slaughtered dripped to the snow below.

"What is this?" Kirk demanded. "What do they want?"

"They're Logan's," Chester said, though his hushed and frightened voice was anything but confident. "...I hope."

Laurentius craned his neck forward and squinted. "What are they carrying?"

Solaire looked and saw that tucked beneath the golem's arms were large wheels, or perhaps cogs, that looked old and rusted. His eyes drifted back to their little heads and looked between them. _Is it you in there, Logan_, he wondered. _Do you see through their eyes? Hear through their ears? Do you control them? Speak to them? What secrets have you uncovered in that infernal dungeon of yours?_

And just as quickly as the golems had arrived to save them, they were gone again. Chester quickly rushed to the cave entrance and watched for their path. "They're heading back," he said. "Back towards Anor Londo... back to Logan."

"Well let's _go_!" Laurentius shouted. "This is a favor of the _Gods_! A convoy of protection to see us back home!"

Kirk sheathed his barbed sword and stepped beside them. "It's about _time_ something went our way."

"We're not going back," Chester told them, his eyes locked on the golems as they trailed away into the blizzard.

"_What_?" Laurentius snapped.

"Don't think I'll let you stand in my way you snickering fool," Kirk warned. "I've had enough of this infernal blizzard and I'm going back to where its warm and there is food."

"And we will," Chester assure them. "But not yet. You see, the _dogs_ weren't the only thing I spied up upon those cliffs," he turned back to them and looked between them. "I saw something _else_. A fire."

"Fire?" Laurentius echoed.

Chester nodded. "Coming from the Undead Burg. It seems that whatever, or _whom_ever Logan has sent us on this suicide mission to retrieve... is not but an hours travel from here. Surely, my companions, you'd like to meet whoever it is that has caused us such duress? And, of course, cost dear Siegmeyer his _life_."

Chester looked to Kirk and Kirk nodded his head. "Yes..." the man in the dark armor pulled his barbed blade free. "Yes, I _would_ like to meet them. Very much."

"Good," Chester said. "Then we camp here tonight, and tomorrow... we head to the Burg. Then we find out if whatever the crow dragged back from the lands beyond... was worth it."

Chester laughed and Kirk joined him. Laurentius joined in shortly after, and then Solaire was the only one left that didn't find any humor in the situation. Bound and helpless on the floor of the cave, he only felt pity... not for himself, but for the poor souls left in the Burg that had no idea what kind of men were coming for them.

And coming for them soon.


	10. Chapter 10

Embers rained from the ball of swirling fire, orange and red lines crisscrossing its core, heat emanating so fiercely from within, the snow three feet below was melting away into a puddle of warm water. Quelana loved the sight of fire. There was nothing more perfect in the world than the beautiful chaos of the flames lashing and whipping at the air. It was a particularly magnificent thing to behold, though, when it was birthed from the will of one of her pupils.

"Good job, Abby," she called across the rooftop. "You take to the fire as naturally as one of my own sisters."

Above the fireball, Abby's pretty blue eyes were aglow in a bath of red. Her lips spread into a smile and she looked to Quelana. "It's so... empowering." She turned the pyromancy glove that Domhnall had supplied her earlier in the morning ever-so-slightly on its side and the flames obeyed, twisting and snapping and following her lead. She raised it high, thrust her arms forward, and corkscrewed them. The ball of flame arched across the roof and barreled into a stack of crates on the other side. They exploded in a dazzlingly display of fire and splintering wood sprayed into the air as if thrown from a fountain. Abby turned her excited gaze on Quelana and her smile widened. "This is amazing!"

Quelana returned the smile, but held a cautious hand up. "It is, Abby, but don't let the flames get the better of you. Remember that. Always fear the flame-"

"-lest it consume you. Yes, I remember," Abby finished. "I will. I promise." She bit her bottom lip and grinned down at her glove. "I want to do it again. Can I?"

"You can do as you please. Just practice control and restraint as _well_ as those flashy tricks. Where did you get the idea to twist your arms like that when throwing the fireball anyway? I've never had a pupil do that before."

Abby shrugged, a fresh coating of snowflakes falling from the locks of her chestnut brown hair. "It felt right."

Quelana measured the girl before her in the tattered cleric robes, nodding. "Many things do for you, don't they, Abby?"

"I suppose they do, yeah," she admitted, shaking more snow free that had grown caked to her boots. "Everything except miracle and spell casting, I guess." She laughed. "But _this_ stuff... and the thing I did with the Taurus Demon? It just feels... natural."

_That's because you are the true chosen, _Quelana thought. _The one who will bring a new age of fire to Lordran, and save Izalith from ruins. _She didn't mean to put anymore pressure on the girl's shoulders, though, so she simply said, "That's good. You can continue practicing that pyromancy spell now if you'd like. I will watch from here. My instructions, for now, are complete."

Abby nodded, thanked her, and almost immediately had another fireball cooking up in the palm of her gloved hand. Quelana watched, but also kept an eye on the streets of the Burg beyond the waist-high barrier encircling the roof. They had been with the merchant, Domhnall, now for two days, though the golden knight Lautrec was swearing up and down he refused to stay one more, so they'd likely be departing before nightfall. Before the dogs.

The dogs, for the most part, had quieted down since the first night, though they still lingered in the streets by day now, stray packs of two and three, and by night they came back in full force, their mutated and engorged heads kept fixed upon Domhnall's little balcony and window. The merchant man had been very kind to them, supplying them with food and drink and shelter, but Quelana could feel his hospitality beginning to wane as his supplies grew shorter in number. It would be for the best if Lautrec did in fact lead them away soon, to _where_, though, she did not know. The man was quiet most of the time. She'd often catch him staring off into the sky, rubbing at the stubble that grew upon his chin. Patches, though, did enough talking for both of them, constantly joking and laughing and even singing on occasion. Quelana still did not like nor trust the man, though, and kept vigilant of any tricks he might be looking to play. Abby maintained her positive and cheerful demeanor, and Quelana was thankful for it, but the boy's-Benjamin's-health seemed to be failing by the day. His skin looked waxy and yellow, and dark circles had cropped up below his eyes. She worried about him, but, really, there was nothing any of them could do.

The pale oval of 'sun' was creeping towards its apex and Abby was working on her fifth consecutive fireball when Lautrec came to them. Quelana turned and watched the man approach, reading the anger in his posture, the way he marched instead of walked, the way his cold and grey eyes were narrowed beneath his brow. "Abby," she called, standing and stepping between the girl and the knight defensively. "Abby, come here." She stretched back her arm and opened her hand, and soon enough Abby was behind her taking hold of it. "Stay beside me."

"What's wrong?" Abby whispered, but her eyes had grown wide upon seeing Lautrec angrily stomping across the rooftop.

Lautrec had, admittedly, gained _some_ of her trust. After all, he'd had plenty of opportunities to hurt either her or Abby, and had yet to do so. He was a cautious, guarded, man, but he did not seem to share the same lust for cruelty that his bald companion did, and so Quelana gave him the benefit of the doubt as he crossed the roof towards them and did not ignite her pyromancy. Still, she was not yet sure of what the man was capable of, and so she stayed at the ready.

Lautrec stopped a few feet before them and his frown deepened. "What are you doing? Do you think I've come to _kill_ the girl or something?"

"What do you want?" Quelana asked. "She did nothing."

"No," he admitted, lifting a finger to her, "But _you_ did. I wake up and asked Patches where you two are. He tells me on the roof. I ask what you're doing. He tells the girl's been practicing pyromancy with some infernal glove the merchant gave her... for _hours_."

Quelana frowned herself. "I don't understand. Why do you care-"

"You were practicing pyromancy at _night_!?" He snapped, cutting her off.

It was Abby's turn to try and speak. "We thought-"

"On a _roof_!?" Lautrec shouted. "You were up here waving _flames_ around in the night for the whole cursed land of Lordran to see? Do you know what _danger_ you may have brought upon us in your foolishness, witch? I expect as much from the girl, she's young and naive, but _you_? You should have known better."

Quelana glared at the knight. "You have no right to speak of Abby like that. She is a kind young woman, and _you _are a paranoid, stubborn, man. Look around us, knight. There's no one _here_. No one coming to harm us. You're overreacting."

"I'm keeping us _alive_," Lautrec growled, "and _you_ only seem intent on making that more and more difficult."

"It was _Abby_ who saved us from the Taurus Demon," Quelana snapped back. "It was _her_ who was wise enough to speak amicably with Domhnall and get us shelter from the dogs that would have _torn us apart_! What have _you_ done for us?"

Lautrec was seething. "If it wasn't for me, the girl would be rotting in a cell."

"I don't think-"

"No, you don't, do you?" Lautrec cut her off.

"Please stop!" Abby shouted. "I'm sorry, okay? I... it's my fault we were up here. I'm sorry, Lautrec. Please don't yell anymore."

Quelana spun to face her. "Abby, you don't have to-"

"No, it's okay," she pleaded. "I understand. It was a mistake. I apologize." She shouldered past, carefully avoiding Quelana's grab at her elbow, and stepped before the knight. Lautrec looked to yell at her, but she reached out and took his right hand between both of hers and squeezed. "I didn't mean to endanger us any further, Lautrec. I am sorry."

Quelana watched as the hard lines of the knight's face softened. Stress lines at his eyes smoothed, his brow lost some of its dig into his nose, his eyes lost some of their intensity, cooled. Quelana looked from Lautrec's face to his hand that Abby still had wrapped in her own. _Mother of __Izalith, _she thought. _The girl is using her calming technique on him. She is soothing his anger. Abby... what other secrets do you hold?_

Lautrec's anger had subsided, but now he was regarding Abby with a look of both confusion and caution. He pulled his hand away from hers and looked at it for a moment before lifting his gaze back to her. "Don't do that again."

"I just didn't want you to be angry," Abby said quietly, folding her hands at her hips and lowering her head.

Lautrec looked from her to Quelana and back. After a long moment of silence he said, "Your hair should be cut," to both of their surprise.

"My hair?" Abby echoed.

Lautrec nodded. "If you're going to be playing with fire. Unless, of course, you don't mind accidentally catching a head of flames one day." He reached to his hip and pulled a short dagger from a leather sheath. "And it will be one less thing for a man to pull if we come under attack." He tossed the dagger to Quelana.

She caught it by the hilt and Abby turned to stare at it wide-eyed and nervous. Quelana looked over her shoulder at Lautrec and understood that, though his words were true, this was also a kind of punishment for her mistake. When she looked back to Abby, the girl was biting at her lip and running strands of her hair through her fingers. "You don't have to do this."

"No, I should. Lautrec is right," Abby said, nodding. "Take it off." She swallowed, closed her eyes, and lowered to a knee.

Lautrec came clearly into view behind her. His arms were folded, his eyes narrowed. "Go on."

Quelana took a handful of the girl's hair, thinking what a shame it was to take such soft and pretty hair away from her, and slipped the edge of the dagger beneath it. It came off easy enough, the dagger was sharp, and soon enough, tufts of brown hair were falling to the rooftop along with the snow.

When it was done, Abby's hair was shorter than even Ben's. Quelana looked to Lautrec and he gave a nod of approval, moved beside her, and took back his dagger. Abby opened her eyes and looked up a them. "How do I look?" She asked, a hopeful little smile coming to her face.

"Like you might live longer," Lautrec told her. "Now go downstairs. Domhnall and Patches could use help cooking up the last of the food. Then we depart."

"Depart? But... where?" Abby asked, standing and shaking loose strands of her shorn hair from her robes.

"Somewhere else," Lautrec answered in his cold, brief, way, and nodded to the stairs. Abby sighed and headed off, but when Quelana moved to follow, the knight took her by the arm. "Not you."

Abby stopped and turned to give Quelana a concerned look, but Quelana waved her off. "Go on, Abby. I can handle the knight."

After a moment's hesitation, she turned and disappeared down the ladder leading to Domhnall's attic.

When they were alone, Quelana pulled her arm free from Lautrec's grip and stepped away from him. "What do you want with me?"

Lautrec stared at her for a moment before sighing, turning, and heading to the roof's barrier to peer down into the Burg below. After a silence, he said, "We are leaving after we eat. The merchant thinks we can make it beyond the walls of the Burg before dusk. He says the dogs don't stalk the Undead Parish and the church beyond. I watched yesterday from the parapets over there as night fell, and he appears to be telling the truth. We will head there to make passage for Sen's Fortress. I know of a shortcut there to take us to Anor Londo. From there... the Duke's Archives are a short journey. Domhnall says there is an 'army' of hollow in the city. I don't believe him, but if there is, we shouldn't have to stray close enough to fight them." He lifted his gaze to the sky, to the sun. "I mean to meet with Logan... and to see what answers he can provide about what has happened to our world and what we can do to stop it." He turned his head to her and stared, apparently awaiting some reply.

Quelana frowned and stepped beside him. "Why are you telling me all this? Aren't I your prisoner?"

"Are you?" Lautrec asked with a shrug. "You tell me. I stood no guard over you the last two nights. You could have left. You didn't."

"I thought about it," Quelana admitted, unsure why she felt compelled to be honest with the knight. "But I do not believe Abby and I could make it to Izalith on our own."

"I figured as much," Lautrec said.

"Still... why are you telling me these things?"

Lautrec sighed. "The girl and Ben are but children. Patches a fool. Domhnall I do not trust. That leaves _you_ to consult with."

"Consult?" Quelana questioned. "You want my _opinion_?"

"That's what we do," Lautrec said. "Knights, I mean. We are used to talking amongst each other, taking orders, planning out our battle lines. You _need_ to consult with others. I learned a long time ago that a man left only to his own thoughts is a man plunging towards madness." A piece of rock broke from the roof's barrier, and the knight took it in his hand, tossed it up and down twice, and let it fall to the Burg below. "So... tell me what you think."

"Why should I?" Quelana asked. She still wasn't sure what to make of this conversation. The knight had been mostly quiet, and when he _did _speak it was to give command, or to berate them for an error. She was wary of some trap he was laying.

"We don't have time to play this game," Lautrec said. "I'm being honest with you, witch, pay me the same courtesy."

Quelana studied him with suspicion once more, but the knight only held her gaze, his face calm and patient. She sighed and looked down to the Burg. "I think... you underestimate what Abby is. She is something special. Do you deny it?"

"No."

Quelana lifted her brow. "No? Then why do you treat her like a child?"

"Because she is. She very well might be the key to salvaging what's left of this broken world, but she'll never get there without a few harsh lessons. Taking her hair was letting her off easy. I only hope the next time she reaches for a handful of it and finds nothing, her thoughts turn to the error you two made last night."

_He speaks with such confidence about everything, _Quelana thought. _But is it true confidence or a well played act? _She watched his hands picking at the stone roof barrier. "I also have a thought about Benjamin."

"Go on."

"This morning after I had taught Abby the fireball sorcery, I went back downstairs to fetch her some water. Ben was kneeling on Domhnall's floor. His nose was bleeding, and when I asked him if he was alright, he looked at me as if I were speaking a different language. He crawled back into bed and curled into a ball."

"He's sick," Lautrec said.

"I don't think so," Quelana said. "He had another bout of 'weakness' back at the Firelink Shrine. It came after Abby used her ability to calm the Taurus Demon."

Lautrec turned to her, understanding come across his face.

"And I'd imagine that just now when she used that ability on _you_, the boy had another bout of weakness."

"They're linked?" Lautrec said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "Yes... that makes sense."

"They came out of the Asylum together. They look similar. They even share the same age. I believe that the stronger one of them gets... the weaker the other becomes."

"She's killing him," Lautrec said. "Your pyro girl is _killing_ the boy."

"Perhaps. Though, what can anyone do about that? If she can stop this cold... reverse this terrible ailment that has befallen the world..."

"Then what is the life of one, sick, boy?" Lautrec finished for her. The corner of his mouth almost curled into a grin, but he stopped himself. "You sound like _me_ now. What was it you called me yesterday? A cold-hearted fool?"

Quelana ignored him. "He might not die. He might just grow more and more ill."

"Yes, I've heard _plenty_ of cases where a man grows so ill he becomes _healthy_," Lautrec said sardonically.

"He is no man," Quelana pointed out. "He is a Chosen. They are something different than you."

Lautrec was quiet for a while then, watching the clouds move listlessly through the sky. Finally, he said, "We leave him then. Here with the merchant. We ride ourselves of a sick traveler, and the merchant gets a companion to help him hunt and cook."

"Abandon him?" Quelana said. _Like you abandoned your sisters, _her thoughts quickly reminded her.

"Not exactly. If he's going to be sick all the time, travel will only make that worse. It's better for everyone if he stays behind. The boy will understand."

"And Abby?"

"What about her? If your asking if we should inform her of this... _situation_ they are in together, I think the clear answer is: absolutely not. She's got too kind of a heart. She'll stop growing stronger intentionally."

Quelana thought on it, and found she had nothing to add. She turned the subject instead. "What will we do at this 'Duke's Archives' you speak of?"

"Dig for more answers."

"And your promise to see me back to Blighttown..." she said quietly, trying not to appear too eager; she didn't want him to know he had such power over her.

Lautrec sighed. "You and that wretched swamp... yes, witch, you'll get back there. Where we are going there are _dozens_ of men, or so Domhnall says. I will talk _some_one into taking you. Me, myself?" He shook his head. "I'm never going back there. I have two things to accomplish, and neither will lead me to that stinking pit."

Quelana brushed snow from the roof's ledge. "I would hope _one_ of them is to reverse this terrible cold that _you_ just may be responsible for creating."

"It is. Not to save the world... but to have one worth _living_ in when this is all said and done."

Quelana thought for a moment, staring at Lautrec's face. "And the second thing... you're going to kill Anastacia of Astora."

Lautrec looked to his hands resting on the barrier. They balled into fists. "_Astora_... keh. Yes, witch, I'm going to kill her."

Quelana turned on him so fiercely, snow that had gathered on her cloak flung off and smacked his golden chestplate. "She is the _last_ firekeeper in Lordran if Domhnall spoke true two nights ago! You would _kill _the last chance Abby or Benjamin have to be reborn from the flames!? Surely not even _you_ can be so bullheaded and-and... _selfish_!?"

"Killing Ana is the least selfish thing I may ever do," Lautrec said calmly.

Quelana stared at him. "As long as we're being so _honest_ with each other here this morning, you should know... if we make it to her together, I'm going to try and stop you."

Lautrec turned to her, held her angry look for a moment, and grinned. "Fair enough, witch. Fair enough."

Their conversation didn't last much longer after that. Quelana was too angry, and Lautrec seemed eager to move. He went over the plan of his journey with her once more as she quietly listened and nodded. She knew nothing of the lands of Lordran, save for what her previous pupils had told her, and so had nothing to input. Before he departed, he informed her he'd made a bargain with Domhnall, his golden gauntlets for bundles of warm clothing for the four of them, and that she was to abandon her robes. When she protested, he cut her off by informing her that in her current state, their party looked like they were traveling around with a witch and that was a bad thing. Quelana could find no counter to his argument, and so when she joined him downstairs and he tossed her a bundle of clothing, she headed into the private confines of Domhnall's bedroom, stripped her black robes from her body, and pulled on dark breeches and a matching tunic, a heavy overcoat of fur and leather, and a wool scarf that wrapped around her nose and mouth and neck. Finally, she stuck her bare feet into a pair of boots, and frowned at the strange feeling of the ground not beneath her soles. She could not understand why humans would want to rob themselves of such a telling sensation, let alone bury themselves in such heavy, restrictive, clothing.

When she returned to the main dining hall where the rest were gathered in heavy clothing of their own, they all stared at her as if she were some new and rare creature they'd spotted. Abby's thin neck and shaved head poked out of a heavy dark blue coat with white trim around the neck and sleeves, and she smiled upon seeing Quelana. Lautrec and Patches were in dark brown leathers and thick coats of grey and black. Domhnall was sipping at a cup of some steaming hot drink, seated at his table, and Benjamin was in the very back of the room... dressed in the same leathers they'd rescued him from the Asylum in. He was sharpening a dagger, his face dark and brooding as he worked.

"Benjamin..." Quelana said softly, crossing the room to stand beside him.

"I already heard it all from the rest of them," Ben snapped, not taking his eyes from the dagger. "Go on and leave me already. You'll regret it, though. You all will. I'm not some helpless little boy. I could have helped..."

"You _are_ helping," she said. "You're needed _here_ now. Be strong. Don't-"

"Leave me," he cut her off, and after that there was nothing more to be said.

Domhnall saw them back to the ladder they had first climbed to lead them to his home two days earlier. The man was in just as pleasant a mood as he had been that day as well, and he insisted on shaking hands with Lautrec and Patches, and hugging Abby and wishing her luck. When his eyes fell on Quelana, it was clear he felt some apprehension about getting too close to a witch, but after a moment's hesitation he reached out and patted her shoulder. "Aye swimae," he said, grinning and turning to face Lautrec. "Good luck on your travels friends. The boy is in good hands here, I assure you."

"Thank you so much for all your kindness and hospitality, Domhnall of Zena," Abby said, smiled, and stood on her tippy toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. "And, of course, for the pyromancy glove."

Dom laughed. "A sweet girl," he said, then to Lautrec, "Keep her safe, aye?"

Lautrec nodded. "Our paths may cross again someday," he said, taking the first rung of the ladder beneath his boot. "Until then."

"Until then," Domhnall agreed and waved.

The Lower Burg was quiet, cold, and deserted. With the sun still not beginning its descent, Quelana felt good about their chances to make it out of the area before the dogs arrived. Her steps were awkward at first, taking up the tail of the party with Abby at her side. She found these 'boot' things to be heavy and cumbersome to her feet, but the snow underfoot had already made the task so difficult, she barely noticed by the time they'd climbed back to the upper level of the city the extra weight. The coat was worse. With no hood to hide her face from the sky, she felt exposed and lightheaded, and once she nearly fell. Abby was beside her to steady her, though. Quelana composed herself, offered her gratitude, and they walked on.

The upper sect of the Burg was windier, but, thankfully, not much different. As they climbed stairs and lowered themselves from ledges, ducked beneath arched alleyways and followed twisting slopes around crumbled buildings and towers, the sun moved up past its apex and towards its Western descent. Lautrec must have noticed this too, because he began hurrying them on more strictly then before, and when Patches requested a 'piss break', Lautrec's dark look was his only reply. They did not stop.

They came upon a tower that Lautrec referred to as 'Havel's Hole'. Within, they were shielded from the biting winds and the heavy snowfall outside, but Lautrec pressed them to climb the spiraling staircase as quickly as possibly anyway, hopeful to be free of the Burg long before night came. Quelana, slowed by the clothing and boots she was still getting used to, was last to climb the stairs behind Abby. The rest had made it up to a flat section a story higher in the tower, Quelana trailing along behind, when she halted and turned her head back to the bottom of the stairs. _Voices_? She thought, her heart frozen as stiff as the icy streets outside. _I must be imagining things_. She stood, listening intently, but no other sound came. _I've grown as paranoid as Lautrec_, she thought with a shake of her head and moved quickly to catch up.

The tower stairs wound and wound upwards for an eternity, and when Quelana believed her legs were going to collapse beneath her, she reached the top where Lautrec and Abby took hold of her arms and pulled her the last bit of the way. Lautrec allowed them a two minute rest (which Patches used to relieve himself in the rounded corner of the room, whistling a melodic little tune as he did) and then he was pushing them to move once again.

They crossed a long, narrow, walkway whose parapets spilled out on one side to the inner city, and on the other side to a great and sprawling forest. Quelana stared down upon it as they walked, amazed at all the pretty shades of greens and blues buried beneath all the suffocating white of snow.

"It's beautiful," Abby remarked. "What is it?"

"Darkroot Garden," Lautrec explained. "We're not going that way."

"A shame, really," Patches said, shifting the heavy pack on his back and spitting a blade of grass he'd been chewing on from between his teeth. "Hear they have a big, plump, talking cat down that way. Hee hee."

"A talking cat?" Abby echoed, and even with her hair gone-perhaps particularly so-her smile brightened every inch of her face. "I'd love to see that someday."

"'Course, with all these new changes to things... might be a talking _dog_ now, hee," Patches said.

The wind was howling across the parapets, digging icy fingers into their faces and arms, and Quelana twice had to steady herself before she fell. Thankfully, the trip across was brief, and then they were descending a short set of stairs that spilled them out to the mouth of a massive, wide, bridge. Their party walked out to the end of it, and Quelana, once again, was amazed. She had spied the enormous structure from the Burg below-it was hard not too-but up here, actually _standing_ at one end of it was breathtaking. There were no such feats of architecture in Blighttown. Only giant pillars and swamp.

"This will take us to the Parish," Lautrec said, turning to eye the sun above. "And we've made it with time to spare."

"The Gods are good today," Patches added. "They want us to make it. Let's not piss 'em off, ey?"

"On that, we agree," Lautrec said, nodding forward before heading out onto the bridge.

Quelana laid the toe of her boot on the bridge and swallowed. Something so big and so open drove terror into her chest. Abby looked back and, upon seeing her hesitation, returned to take her arm in her own. "It's okay," she said. "I'll walk beside you."

And so she did. That was how Quelana crossed her first ever bridge; clutched tightly to Abby's arm, desperately keeping her eyes on her own boots, and not the sprawling pale blue sky above. She had focused so intently on her own feet, she nearly walked right into Lautrec, who was halted before them. She lifted her head and opened her mouth to question his abrupt stop, but the look on his face answered her question. _Voices. You weren't paranoid_. "We've been followed?" She asked, though it sounded more like a statement.

"Get to that indentation at the halfway point of the bridge," he commanded. "Patches, help them." He narrowed his eyes over Quelana's shoulder at whomever was approaching. "One of them has a crossbow."

"Oh no," Abby whimpered, but the girl took the knight's command well enough. She was practically dragging Quelana forward, the two of them tripping over their own feet in the knee-high snows. Patches grabbed Abby by the arm when they neared a slight alcove in the bridge with a set of stairs leading down to a lower level and yanked her behind it. Quelana tripped to her hands and knees and crawled the last bit of the way. Patches disappeared below almost immediately. "Where are you going?" Abby pleaded, but the bald man, if he'd heard her at all, offered no reply.

Quelana clambered to her feet, grabbed the edge of the indentation, and stuck her head out to see what was happening. Lautrec stood alone in the middle of the bridge, his golden chest plate held before him in both hands like a mighty shield. Beyond him, at the mouth of the bridge they'd entered on not two minutes earlier, four men were huddled together in dark armors and cloaks, one with a black bag pulled over his head, his arms bound. _The fire... _Quelana realized with a sense of dread stirring up a knot in her stomach. _Lautrec was right. We were using fire at night_ _and these men saw it._

_ ...and now we've led them right to us..._


	11. Chapter 11

As the men neared, four dark figures moving forward in a straight line between the bridge walls, they began to take form; the swirling drifts of snowfall from the previous night's blizzard whipping around them, obscuring them just enough to give them the appearance of other-worldly creatures coming forth in dusk's last light. Abby clutched tightly to Quelana's arm as she kept her head low and peeked around the stone wall to watch them. One of them, she saw, was a prisoner. He was garnished in heavy plate armor and his arms and wrists were bound with rope; his head and face hidden beneath a black bag. Beside him, trailing slightly behind the others, the crossbow-wielder stalked forward, and Abby could swear his face was painted like a jester's and his expression was twisted up into inhuman contortions. It wasn't until he neared that she realized the face beneath the man's top hat was, in fact, a mask. On the far side of those two, a cloaked man with sharp features and a bearded face came, his hand aglow with a lit pyromancy glove, not unlike the one Abby wore on her own left hand.

In the center of their group, a tall knight in dark armor strode forward, and Abby found her heart quicken with fear upon the mere sight of him. A barbed sword was dragging at his side, cutting through the snow playfully as he walked. Hung from his opposed arm, a small shield with spikes and thorns growing from its trim. His shoulder mantles were sharp with thorns as well, and even between the distance that separated them, Abby could hear his deep voice speaking with the others, laughing with them.

Only Lautrec stood between the men and Quelana and herself, and Abby knew there would be nothing he could do against the four of them-three, if they kept their prisoner bound-if they charged him. "What is he _doing_?" Abby whispered to Quelana. "He's going to die!"

"There's nothing else to be done, Abby," Quelana told her, the witches eyes locked on the approaching men. "If these men wish us harm, we must fight them."

"_We_?"

Quelana shook the insulated gloves free from her hands and the pale skin below took on the red glow of pyromancy. She turned on Abby, fixing her with an almost sympathetic expression. "It is a shame we didn't have more time before you had to use your glove. There was much more I would have like to prepare you for before setting the flames on the living."

"Stay where you are," Lautrec shouted back to them. Apparently he was close enough to hear their conversation. "You're unarmored. The crossbowmen can have a bolt through your chest before you take three steps."

"Then what do you want us to do?" Quelana asked.

"If they rush me, I'll lead them backwards," Lautrec explained. "Then we hope they come close enough for you to set one of those fire spells upon them."

"And if they don't fall for that?"

Lautrec paused, eyeing the oncoming troop. "Then hope they fight poorly," he said, and upon a moment's reflection, "Or that I fight very, very, well."

Patches barreled up the wooden stairs he had disappeared down earlier, out of breath and red in the face. Abby frowned. "Where did you go running to? Lautrec needs your help!"

"There ain't no bloody way out down there," Patches said, spitting, and unsheathing his dagger. "A shame. I wasn't particularly looking forward to dying today."

"We're trapped?" Lautrec called over his shoulder, chest plate still held forth in his hand like a shield to protect himself for the crossbowmen.

"Aye," Patches said. "One path is a dead end, the other buried in so much rubble we'd have their blades up our asses before we even get the first stone moved."

"Is there enough room to maneuver?" Lautrec asked. "Can we get down there, set them an ambush?"

"Possibly," Patches answered. "Though, if they're even _half_-witted they'd approach slow, realize we've got nowhere to go, and wait us out. Maybe rain some of those crossbow bolts down on us from the stairs to pass the time."

"Hellooo, friends!" A voice shouted further on down the bridge, and Abby poked her head out again to see the group's pyromancer had one hand cupped around his mouth, the other waving above his head. "Fine day for a stroll on the bridge, isn't it?"

Lautrec did not reply, though Abby saw his stance widen, his knees bend ever-so-slighty, and his grip tighten around the gold edges of his chest plate.

Twenty feet away, the men finally halted their march. Their bound prisoner was struggling beside the crossbowmen and Abby could hear muffled shouts coming from beneath the hood. The tall knight in the thorn-laced armor turned on the prisoner, laughed, and drove the blunt end of his sword into the captive's stomach. The prisoner doubled over in spurts of coughs and collapsed to the bridge, the bag coming free from his head as he did and exposing the man beneath. He was round-faced and badly beaten, his hair blonde like Lautrec's, but a fairer shade and cropped close to his head. His left eye was swollen shut; dry blood caked his upper lip. Abby clutched her hands to her chest and felt a wash of sadness come upon her. They had been beating the man.

"Set your little 'shield' down there, friend, and let us talk like men," the pyromancer continued, ignoring the coughing prisoner at his feet. "We mean you... no harm."

"_Lies!_" The captive shouted from the stone floor of the bridge, spitting blood from his mouth and lifting his head to stare wide-eyed at Lautrec. "_Craven! The lot of them! They murdered their own! They-_"

The thorn knight wrenched his leg back and drove the steel tip of his boot across the prisoner's jaw. The prisoner's head snapped back, his eyes closed, he fell silent.

"I wasn't in the mood for games and deceptions anyway," the knight said before turning back on Lautrec. "Let's tell them the truth."

Abby could see the pyromancer was annoyed his 'game' had been given up so quickly. He took a breath, shook his head, but pressed on anyway. "Well... I suppose that first sentence was a lie. My apologies. We _do _mean you harm, actually. How much, however, is up to you. I am the great pyromancer, Laurentius. My... eh, _blunt_, friend here is the knight of thorns, Kirk. The man with his crossbow set, I'm sure, between your two eyes is the Marvelous Chester. Our prisoner is... well, of no concern to you. Now, you can either lay your weapons down and-"

"Piss on that," the tall knight, Kirk, grumbled from beneath his black helm. "I want combat. I know this knight. He's Lautrec. Hails from Carim, no?"

Lautrec was silent.

Kirk laughed and went on anyway. "Those Carim knights don't use shields, which explains the way he's using his damned _armor_ as one." The knight laughed again, fixed Lautrec with a stare, and then pulled the helm free from his head. The man within had thick and curly black hair that framed his rather ugly face. His lips were plump and scarred, and his eyes were like black pits sitting beneath the lines of his dense brows. He pursed his lips, leaned, and spit between Lautrec and himself. "Never did kill a knight of Carim. Would love to add a notch to my belt."

The crossbowmen, Chester, leaned his head forward and Abby saw his eyes fix her way beneath his mask. She shivered and pulled herself closer to Quelana, who wrapped an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. "The knight rides with _girls_," Chester said, his voice only slightly muffled beneath the jester's mask. "And... oh, my. Patches? Trusty Patches? Patches the _Hyena_? Ha! I've never seen a sadder group assembled."

Abby looked back expecting Patches to retort, or at least say _something_, but all she found was a man who looked just as afraid as she was. He said nothing.

Kirk's plump lips curled up into what Abby assumed was his version of a smile as his eyes moved from Lautrec to Patches to Quelana and herself. "Here's how things are going to go. I'm going to face you in combat, knight of Carim. I'm going to win. Then I'm going to take the bald head off your friend there and toss it to the streets below so the dogs can feast on his skull tonight. Then? We're going to take your girls... in more ways than one." He laughed a terrible, horrendous, laugh and the pyro and crossbowmen joined him.

"What say you, knight?" Laurentius questioned. "We won't get involved if Kirk here wants a fair shot at you. Will you face him?"

"You can always try running," Chester added. "And see if your legs are quicker than my quiver full of friends."

"I'll fight," Lautrec said, and it had been so long since he talked, Abby jumped a bit upon hearing his voice so close to her.

"Ooooh," Kirk taunted him, grinning and shaking his head. "A man of few words. I like it." He pointed to the others and waved them off. "Either one of you interfere in this, you'll be picking the barbs of my blade out of your ass tonight."

Lautrec took four steps back so that he was parallel to them and spoke quietly, holding the shield a bit higher to hide his mouth. "If I should die, you'll have to charge them with everything you have. They will show you no mercy if I fall."

"Please..." Abby pleaded, but when Lautrec look to her to continue she realized she had no other words to offer. "I just... wish this wasn't happening."

"Wish in one hand, shit in the other, isn't that how the saying goes?" Patches said.

"Witch..." Lautrec said, his eyes falling on Quelana. "If I fall and you should somehow go on... tell Anastacia I tried."

"You _tried_?" Quelana echoed.

"She'll understand," Lautrec said, turned to his opponent, and lowered his chest plate to fix it back over his body.

"Done strategizing with yer _girls_?" Kirk taunted, fixing his helm back over his head. Over his shoulders, Chester and Laurentius stepped back to give them room. "Clear some of this snow up, Laurentius. Give me so mobility," Kirk said, and the pyro sparked his glove and threw a fireball to the bridge between Lautrec and the Knight of Thorns. The snowfall melted away there, exposing more of the stone beneath. Kirk prodded it with the toe of his boot. "It will be slippery... see which man can adapt to his surroundings better, ey?"

Lautrec said nothing. He stepped into the clearing, his hands reached behind him to the small of his back simultaneously, and he ripped free the dual shotels that hung there. The blades made an audible _shck_ sound that echoed off the bridge walls, and then Lautrec held them low and to his sides, the sinking sun setting them ablaze with its final fingers of light clawing up over the Western horizon. Ten feet before him, Kirk, nodded, raised his spiked shield, and pointed his barbed straight sword directly ahead at Lautrec.

Abby had dreamed of such confrontations when she was a girl. It was like a poem out of one of her school books. Two knights meeting on a bridge in single combat. She had always fantasized that they had both been valiant and honorable and handsome in polished steel plating and white cloaks; that their faces were clean and teeth white and hair perfectly neat and rested upon their comely faces. This didn't feel like one of her fantasies. _This_... this was two men, faces dirty and armor rusted, ready to _murder_ one another in cold blood and all Abby felt was a sense of dread and a queasy feeling stirring in the pit of her stomach. She felt like crying and suddenly realized how right Lautrec had really been about her all along. _I _am_ a girl, _she thought. _Nothing more but a silly, naive, girl and now I'm going to watch a man die, and if the _wrong_ man should die... I will surely follow him soon enough. _

She was pulled from her daze with the sound of metal smacking metal. It was a sickening sound that filled every inch of the bridge. She held tighter to Quelana still and forced herself to lean out to look.

Lautrec was in pursuit. He was driving on the Knight of Thorns, pressing him back, his shotels raising and falling in rapid succession. Kirk could only deflect the blows with his shield, step aside others, and backpedal. Lautrec shouted and pushed harder, and Abby saw he was trying to get the other knight's boots in the heavier snow behind him. Kirk, apparently, realized this as well. He blocked a slash, feigned a thrust of his sword, and barreled forward with his spiked shield held before him instead. Lautrec was gut in the chest and heaved backwards, nearly loosing his footing as his arms pinwheeled for balance. The Knight of Thorns pressed the attack, looking to take advantage of the opportunity, and switched the barbed sword to a two-handed grip before lunging forward with the tip of it stretched outwards. Lautrec's left arm swept down, the shotel clutched in his gauntlet catching the sword and throwing it out of the way. Kirk stumbled to the side and Lautrec swiped at him with the opposite shotel. The spiked shield came up just in time to catch the blow and for one brief moment that seemed like an eternity to Abby, the two knights stared at each other, waiting to counter the other's attack. When neither did, they both feigned and backpedaled, but now they had switched sides and Lautrec's back was to the pyro and the crossbowmen.

"No!" Abby wailed when she saw Laurentius spark his glove and raise his arm.

Quelana stood so suddenly, Abby nearly fell. The witch sparked her own pyromancy and held the hand up high, threatening to douse the Knight of Thorns in a bath of flame. Laurentius looked from Lautrec to her and his mouth fell agape. "How..." Was all he managed before Lautrec and Kirk were going at it once more.

The barbed sword and the shotels clanged off one another as the two knights moved in close. Lautrec's free hand came up with the second shotel to swipe at Kirk's neck, but the Knight of Thorns twisted free, deflected the blow, and brought his spiked shield down across Lautrec's temple. The hit landed, a spurt of blood shot from Lautrec's brow, and he stumbled backwards to the snow.

Abby's breath caught in her chest, her eyes watered, her legs felt made of rubber. Kirk's pursuit was relentless. He darted forward and stuck the blade into Lautrec's stomach. _It's over_, Abby thought, her sense of dread ready to overtake her entirely. But it wasn't over. Lautrec had narrowly avoided the attack, wrapped his shotel around the knight's ankle, and pulled. Kirk's leg came out from beneath him, and the big, lumbering, knight spilled backwards into the bridge wall. Lautrec scrambled to his feet, rushed up to his opponent, hooked _both_ shotels around the back of Kirk's helm and _ripped_. The knight lowered his shoulders just in time so that only his helmet came flying off and not his entire _head_. Helmless, he wailed a war-cry and swiped the barbed sword at Lautrec's face, but Lautrec had anticipated the attack, parried with the shotel in his left hand, catching the sword in the curved angle of the blade, and ripped it free from the Knight of Thorns' hand. With only his spiked shield left to him, the knight shouted, took it in both hands, and tried driving it down into Lautrec's chest. Lautrec ducked the attack, buried his shoulder in Kirk's abdomen, and tackled him to the ground. When they landed, Lautrec was straddled ontop of the knight, his shotels raised and ready to cut the man's jugular.

"_Enough_!" Laurentius shouted, threatening Lautrec with a ball of fire.

Chester raised his crossbow. "Congratulations. You win. You're still going to die."

Before Lautrec could respond, Kirk took the opportunity to throw his weight to the side, freeing himself from Lautrec's pin, and rolled back to his barbed sword laying near Chester's feet. He stood, his face as red and furious as the pyro's fireball, and glared at Lautrec panting and heaving. "_Again!_" He demanded. "Again you coward! _Do you hear me!?_"

"Are you sure? Your friends won't be able to save your life again next time," Lautrec said as calm and collected as Abby had ever seen him. _He lives for this, _she realized. _Combat comes as naturally to him as Quelana's pyromancy has to me._

Kirk's face twisted up into a scowl. "Witty words, knight. A shame they _will_ be your last."

"What about these?" Lautrec taunted, and Abby saw he was loosening his chest plate once again. "Now that I know the measure of your fighters, I think I can hold you off." He explained and quickly brought the plate forth to shield himself from the crossbowmen's potential attack once again. "You may yet still win, but we're not going to make it so easy for you. Quelana," he called back over his shoulder. "Take Abby down those stairs and get ready to fortify a position. These men are weaker than I had expected."

"_Quelana_..." Laurentius echoed, his eyes widening, his mouth falling agape once again. "That... that cannot be..."

"He lies," Chester snapped, trying to spot somewhere on Lautrec to fix his crossbow. "He does not travel with the Mother of Pyromancy. He's trying to scare us off so we don't come after them."

"No, Chester," Laurentius spoke quietly, almost reverently. "I saw her before. She birthed a flame from her _bare_ hand! No glove! She is... she is a Daughter of Chaos..."

Chester turned to the pyro, his face unreadable beneath the mask as he stared. He turned back to them and laughed. "Well... our catch just got a whole lot more valuable. Logan might be so pleased with us we could finally rid ourselves of our knightly guest here," he said, kicking at the unconscious man bound at his feet.

"Piss on the lot of them!" Kirk shouted, still red in the face and furious. "I want the knight in combat! I can beat him! I can _win_!"

Lautrec was taking cautious steps back towards them. "You will certainly try," he told the group. "But you might have a long night ahead of you. If I were you, I'd hope the dogs from the Burg don't venture this high up, or perhaps it won't be such a long night." He glanced back at Quelana again. "Downstairs. Quickly."

Chester laughed. "We _will_ eventually get you, knight. The lot of you. Then we're going to have our fun."

"We'll see," Lautrec said calmly, still backstepping.

Patches stood beside Abby and she turned to see his eyes were narrowed on Lautrec. She frowned at him and meant to ask what he was doing, but then she saw the dagger clutched in his hand; his knuckles as white as bone around it. She gasped, the horrific realization of his intention coming over her, and opened her mouth to scream, but the back of his hand swatted her across the cheek and she fell. "_No_!" She wailed once she'd recovered. "_Lautrec!_"

But it was too late.

She looked just in time to see Patches rush up behind him and bury the dagger into the side of his body where the chest plate and its backing met and the flesh beneath was exposed. Lautrec's back arched violently, his 'shield' dropped from his hands, and he winced in anguish. Patches grunted, drove Lautrec to the side walling of the bridge, and shoved him up over the top of it. Lautrec folded over at the stomach, and Patches hoisted his shoulder beneath the knights legs and pushed. Lautrec disappeared over the side.

"_NO!_" Abby screamed, and her vision blurred with tears.

"Good evening, fellas," Patches said, catching his breath, sheathing the dagger, and turning to the confused party of men before him. He smiled a sickening smile and tucked his thumbs into his coat pockets. "Never liked that bloody knight anyway. He tried choking me once. Pisser. Who go the last laugh now? Patches did. Hee hee."

Quelana had been staring forth in a shock of her own, but now her brow furrowed and her teeth barred and she was ready to rush out and burn the bald men.

"Stay where you are, woman," Chester warned, his crossbow now fixed upon her.

"Quelana..." Abby muttered. She couldn't breath, couldn't stand, couldn't _think_.

Quelana fell beside her and pulled her close. "It's okay, sweet child. Shhhh. It's alright."

"Some on you know me, some of you don't," Patches went on, the threat of Quelana's fire quelled. "For those who don't, my name is Patches, and I do believe I just saved us all a good long night of uncomfortable violence. Heard you mention Logan? I'm guessing you're heading back to the Archive's where the rest of the sensible men of the world have gathered. I'd be grateful if I could join you. And you, um, Laurentius was it? Yes, that _is_ the Mother of Pyromancy. She's quite the fire bitch, though, hee, and you'd be wise not to underestimate her. Me? I'd personally slit the bitch's throat and be done with her. The other girl, though... I've seen her do some fairly miraculous things. She's the Chosen Undead, you see, and I'd be more than willing to split the reward Logan would likely pay for such a-"

Kirk stepped forth and drove his shield into Patches' stomach. The bald man choked on his words, sputtered, and then dropped to his knees gasping for air.

"You robbed me of a victory," Kirk told him, laying the barbed sword beside Patches' head. "I don't like to be robbed."

"Kirk..." Chester said, stepping forth. "He _did_ save us some trouble by murdering that pesky knight."

"You want to _trust_ the man who stabs his own traveling companions in the back?" Kirk asked.

Chester shrugged. "Break the hand he held the dagger in." He laughed. "Then he can't stab any of us."

Kirk fixed Patches with a cold stare. "Fine. Lay your hand down."

Patches looked between the three men, a look of stunned incredulity frozen on his face. "You... you can't be serious? I just-"

"Lay your hand down," the Knight of Thorns repeated.

Patches fixed each of them with a pleading stare once more, but when he apparently found no sympathy he winced, swallowed, and slowly set his shaking hand down to the stone floor of the bridge. The moment it landed, Kirk took his shield in both hands and smashed it down upon Patches hand and Abby heard the sickening sound of bones being crunched and shattered. The knight did it a second and third time, and by the fourth Patches was screaming and pleading for mercy.

"Won't stab no one in the back now, will you?" Kirk asked with a cruel smile fixed on his ugly face.

"Killed him..." Abby muttered, swiping tears from her eyes. She felt more hollow then she had when she'd actually _been_ hollow. "He saved me from the Asylum... and that man killed him... killed him... dead..."

"Shhhh," Quelana hushed her, the witch's hand stroking her hair. "The world is a strange place," she whispered. "Those that live may die, and those that die may still live yet. Do not be afraid, Abby. He was defending _you_. You are still more important than anything. Be strong. Do not let these men break you."

The men strode forth, passing casually by Patches who was balled up on the bridge floor, cradling his smashed hand and weeping like a child. The three of them stepped beside the bridge's indented section and loomed over Quelana and herself, their shadows burying them from dusk's pale light. Kirk cocked his head to the side and licked at his disgusting, plump, lips. "It won't be safe here for long, but... I'd like to have my fun with them now. The woman is damned beautiful to be in the company of an ugly fool like you," he called back to Patches. "And the _girl_... what a sweet, pretty, little thing. When's the last time you had something that sweet, Chester, even _with_ her hair all chopped up like a boy's?"

"Too long," Chester said.

"Me too. We have some time to spare before night. Let's make it count."

"No," Laurentius said, stepping between them.

Kirk's face darkened. "You'd better have a damned good reason for blocking those pretty girls from my view with _your_ ugly face."

"This is Quelana of Izalith!" He pleaded. "Do you realize what this means? She... the legends say she's never been to the surface! She..." He looked upon her and stared. "Her mother is responsible for all the fire in the _world_! And _she_ herself birthed the art of pyromancy to teach to humans! You can _not_ defile her! It would be... it would be _sacrilege!_"

Kirk sneered. "You're not making nearly as convincing an argument as the thing between my legs is."

"Logan will have us _all_ killed," Laurentius said. "He has been studying this world for so long... can you _imagine_ the treasures he'd reward us with if we bring him the _mother_ of pyromancy and a living daughter of the Witch Izalith unsullied and pure as the day she was born? Think of the punishment if we fail him in this task. I assure you, friends, if you want woman, Logan _will_ provide more than any of us could ever _dream_ of if we bring the witch to him!"

Kirk held the man's gaze for a long moment, the displeasure clear on his face, before saying, "Fine. But the girl is mine."

"The girl will not be touched," Quelana snapped immediately. "If any of you lay one hand on her, I'll kill myself, and if I _can't_, I will tell this 'Logan' of the treacheries you performed and ask, no, _beg_, him to end your miserable lives. Leave her be, and I will hold my tongue if we should make it back to him. You have my word."

"Piss on your word," Kirk snarled.

"No, she has the right of it," Chester intervened. "Leave the little girl and her witch alone. Laurentius speaks the truth. We will have our reward at the Archives where it's warm," he looked to the darkening sky, "and _safe_."

"Denied victory in war _and_ in love in the same hour," Kirk said, turning his head to the side and spitting. "Logan's _reward_ better be worth it." And with that he turned and strode off, kicking once again at Patches' quivering figure.

Chester lifted his crossbow. "Do any more travel with you?"

_Ben! Domhnall!_ Abby thought, but bit her lip and lowered her head to hide her desperation. _Please don't find them too!_

"No," Quelana lied.

Chester stared at her for a long time before sighing. "Fine. Bind them and get them ready to move, Laurentius. Night comes and the dogs with it. I'd like to be back in the woods before that happens."

Chester stepped back and fixed his crossbow on them as Laurentius pulled a bundle of rope from a sack at his waist. When he bent to their eye level, he was staring at Quelana so intently, he seemed to almost forget what he was doing. "I never dreamed of the day when my eyes would lay upon you, mother of pyromancy. It is... an honor beyond words to just simply be in your presence."

Quelana stared back at him, clearly fighting to hide her disdain. "Just keep the girl safe and untouched and you'll have my gratitude."

_Lautrec, _Abby thought as the man took up her arms to bind. _Please live. Please._

_ Please be alive._


	12. Chapter 12

He awoke with the taste of blood in his mouth and a throbbing in his jaw. When he tried opening his eyes, the world was a dim and blurry wash of whites and greys. Voices mumbling from the colorless blobs sharpened his focus; the wind scraping at his face and neck returned it to him. Solaire shook his head and took in a deep breath of icy wind that hurt his lungs. He coughed, the acrid taste of dry blood on his lips and tongue furthering his alertness. He made to stand, but ropes wrapping his arms and torso to a tree at his back refused him. _Still in their hands, _he realized with despair. _Praise the sun, I'm still their captive_.

They had returned to the Darkroot Garden. Solaire forced his eyes to widen and took in the sight of the little bonfire they had going in a small clearing of woods; endless rows of brown and green trees marched on in every direction around them. The cravens were gathered around it, aglow in its red warmth as they spoke to one another and drank from wineskins. Kirk's helmet was not on his head, and Solaire saw with disgust that the big knight was smiling and laughing as his yellow teeth ripped at a haunch of rabbit and chased it with the wine. Chester's mask was flipped up onto the brim of his tophat, but the man was seated with his back to Solaire, so the knight only saw a fall of dark brown hair. Laurentius was the only one of them quiet, and almost eerily so. He wasn't eating nor drinking; his shadowed eyes peering from beneath his hood across the fire towards Solaire. _No, not me_, he realized and turned to follow the man's eyeline. _Her_?

A woman sat bound in a similar fashion to a nearby tree; her skin as pale a snow, her eyes as green as a fresh blade of grass, and her hair dark and straight and hung loose around her sharp features. _She is beautiful_, Solaire thought. _But who _is _she_? He meant to open his mouth and ask her, but his jaw hurt at the slightest movement and he decided to rest it a moment longer. The woman's head was hung low, as if in defeat, and Solaire didn't think she'd have much to say to him anyway. He looked to his other side and spotted two _more_ travelers now in their company. A bald man was leaned up beside a tree, though not bound like himself and the woman, and cradled a bandaged hand in his lap. He wore a look of agony on his face and when his eyes caught Solaire's, he sneered and quickly turned away.

The last of the new company was a young boy who was hunched quietly beside the fire in a heavy brown coat. It wasn't until Solaire tried shifting his weight and a stab of pain flared in his jaw making him grunt that the boy turned to look back at him and revealed that 'he' was actually a 'she'. Her hair was cut short like a boy's, but her eyes were pretty and blue, the lashes long, and her features were fair and soft. Solaire noted the redness and puffy look to those eyes though and realized she must have been doing a great deal of crying. Her hands were bound loosely at her hips, but if the cravens were holding her prisoner as well, they clearly didn't see her as much of a threat as either the woman bound beside him, or Solaire himself.

"Logan's dog comes awake," he heard Kirk mutter from the bonfire.

Chester turned back to look over his shoulder. In the shadow of the flames, Solaire could see his facial features were sharp, but not much more. "Hey," he called to the girl. "Don't be talking to our friend there, girl. We wouldn't want to have to take your tongue out, now, would we?"

"No," she said, so quietly and sadly and _hope_lessly that Solaire felt like weeping for the girl. She sniffled and turned back to the fire.

"Got you some company, Solaire," Chester called across the clearing. "Aren't we kind?"

Solaire knew it would hurt to speak back to the man, but he did so anyway, forcing past the pain in his jaw. "You are nothing but dead man now. You just don't know it yet. The Sun will not shine favorably on any of you when your day comes."

Kirk snorted and ripped more meat free from his haunch. "I say we take _his_ tongue. Would make a good desert."

They shared a laugh and returned to their wine and their conversation. Laurentius still stared at the woman beside him, his hands folded at his chin. Solaire looked to her and frowned. "My lady, do you know why that man is staring at you so intently?"

On his other side, a soft chuckle erupted. Solaire turned to see the bald man was looking his way with a slimy grin on his face. "That ain't no lady, knight. That's a fire bitch."

Solaire scowled at the man. "That's no way to talk to a woman."

"Ain't no _woman_ either," the bald man said. "I told you. She's a bloody _witch_. The pyro over there has a hard-on for her, as I'd imagine most pyromancers would. Bitch created the art."

"A witch?" Solaire repeated and looked back to the woman. Her head was no longer hanging, now it was lifted and her green eyes were blazing with a cold fury as she glowered at the bald man. Solaire nearly recoiled from her intensity; he'd never seen such hatred on a woman's face. "My lady? Is that... true?"

Her eyes landed on his and some of the rage within subsided. "Yes."

_This is the party we came upon on the bridge_, Solaire realized, chagrined at his own foolishness. _Of course it is. Who else would it be? _He looked around the clearing once more. _The man with the gold armor is missing, that is why I didn't put it together. _"My lady," he spoke to the woman, "Oh, I... I suppose... I shouldn't call you such... a thing. I- I'm not sure-"

"What do you want?" She interrupted.

Solaire took a breath and composed himself. "You traveled with another. I saw him briefly on the bridge before that large craven in the thorn-covered armor struck me unconscious. He is missing now."

She turned her gaze back on the bald man and nodded. "That man killed him."

"I should've killed _you_, too," the man said, turning his head to the side and spitting. "Fire bitch. You'll get yours soon enough."

"You killed him?" Solaire asked.

"That's right. Name's Patches. Learn it, fear it, respect it, or _you'll_ be next," he said with a grin.

Solaire frowned. "You _belong_ with men like these. You seem to share their foolish sense of entitlement and their lack of moral fiber. If I were free-" A rock launched from Patches' hand and struck him in the temple. Solaire winced as a bolt of pain carried all the way down to his jaw.

"You _ain't_ free, so I'd watch your tongue," Patches snapped.

"Did we tell you you could go throwing rocks, Hyena?" Kirk's voice came balefully across the clearing. "Shall I smash up your other hand?"

"N-No!" Patches pleaded, his tone shifting immediately. His brow creased, his working hand clutched to his bandaged one, he whimpered. "I didn't mean no trouble. Please."

_Craven, _Solaire thought, fixing the man with a look of disgust. Regardless, his little act worked. Kirk laughed at the sad man and went back to his wine. Somewhere far off in the woods, a twig snapped and a rock clattered against another. Solaire squinted into the darkness that encased the clearing, catching flashes of snowfall shaking loose from treetops as wind gusted by and nothing else. He tried getting a sense of place, and figured them to be far enough from the Burg that they wouldn't-or, at least, hopefully _shouldn't_-need worry about dogs. The steep climb to Anor Londo was less than half a day's ride West, and if the Sun was kind, they'd make it before some _other_ beast sprung up in this new world and struck them down.

He sat in silence for awhile, listening to the wind and trying his best _not_ to listen to Chester and Kirk share stories about women they'd had. His thoughts eventually turned back to the woman beside him. He turned on her and raised a brow. "Are you truly a witch, my lady? What does that even mean? Surely you cannot be... well, inhuman. What is your name?"

The woman's eye fell on his and held as the wind tossed her raven-black hair into a swirl around her pale face. She was quiet for a moment before saying, "Do you consider yourself a true knight, sir?"

Solaire, despite being bound to a tree and his face swollen in a half-dozen places, lifted his chin and nodded. "I do, my lady. Always."

She measured him with squinted eyes before nodding. "That girl by the fire? Her name is Abby. She is the Chosen Undead, rescued by the fallen knight that traveled with us from the Undead Asylum. She is, possibly, this world's _last_ hope of being restored. If you are as true a knight as you claim, and I've met many in my lifetime who've said something similar and were proven to be dishonest in their claims, you will do _anything_ you can to protect her - both from these terrible men whose company we are forced upon, and that which lies beyond these woods: the demons and beasts that would seek to harm her."

Solaire's mouth had fallen agape. The woman had spoken so bluntly and honestly about her desires, he wasn't sure of what to make of it. Logan had sent him to find out what the crow would bring to Lordran when it returned from its journey, but Solaire always had doubts in the back of his mind that _another_ Chosen could possibly arise. He looked from the woman to the girl; _Abby_, apparently. She was too far from them to hear the woman's quiet words, and was still hunched beside the bonfire, gazing sadly into its flames. "You... you are telling me that girl is... the Chosen?"

"I'm more sure of it than anything I've ever been sure of," the woman said. "I don't know what these men will do to me. If we should make it back to your base and I am brought forth to this 'Logan' they speak of, I am not sure what _he_ will do with me. Her life may be in your hands, knight. Swear it. Swear it to your Gods that you will protect her."

Solaire looked to the dark sky and took a breath. "If you speak truly... I swear it, my lady. I swear upon the sun. Praise it and let it guide me with its warmth." He turned to her. "But I assure you, my lady, Logan is a _good_ man. He is a bit eccentric, certainly, but he desires to save this world as much as any man I've encountered. He will not harm you. And if the girl is truly the Chosen... praise the sun, do you know what that _means_? We still have a chance! She can slay Gwyn! Light the bonfire!"

The woman's eyes locked upon his. She was silent for a long moment. Her lips curled into a faint, wistful, smile. "I... I hope you're right," she said, sighed, and added, "And I am no 'lady', sir. I am a witch. My mother was the great witch Izalith who birthed fire to the world of Lordran."

Solaire grinned. "You jest."

Her unwavering stare told him that she, in fact, did _not_ jest.

Solaire's grin faded, his brow raised. "You... you're _serious_? You are a daughter of chaos?"

She nodded.

He licked at his lips, his throat suddenly grown dry. "What kind of group _was_ yours? A daughter of chaos, the Chosen Undead, a knight, and a man as craven and cruel as _him_?" He said, nodding to Patches. "What circumstances, if you don't mind me asking, brought you all together?"

And so she told him. The witch told a story that began in Blighttown, with her own kidnapping, that led them to the Undead Asylum to rescue the girl, Abby, before returning to Firelink Shrine. She spoke of the girl's ability to resist her charm spell and to quell the rage of demons. She told of the Knight of Carim, Lautrec, and how she believed he had come to trust her before his murder, and of his ambitions to end a 'cycle of the world' that had been revolving for an eternity. She spoke to him of dogs in the Burg, and how the holed up in an abandoned home til they passed, and how the knight himself never truly trusted Patches and how it had been, ultimately, his undoing. She told of her desires to return to Blighttown, to find her family and what had happened to them. Finally, she repeated her plea to Solaire. "But above all, know that _Abby_ is the most important part of this. She _must_ be kept safe."

Solaire sat, his head slumped against the tree at his back, for a long while, soaking the story in. _What will Logan make of this wild tale? _he wondered. _A new Chosen sprung to life after the old one failed us... a knight who, seemingly, broke through the barrier of time itself to pursue an end of some eternal cycling of the world... a daughter of chaos brought forth to the realm of men for the first time in Lordran's history... it's almost too much to believe._

He looked to the girl cradling her knees beside the fire. _She doesn't _look _like much, but I suppose... neither did _he_. _Solaire could still see the face of the Chosen Undead who had failed to kill Gwyn and-with no firekeeper's bonfire to return from-vanished from the world. He was a boy similar in age to her. _And he failed, _Solaire thought. _Why will _she_ succeed?_

The witch-Quelana was her name, she'd mentioned in the story-looked somewhat exhausted from their talk, and so Solaire asked no further questions. Kirk and Chester finished up their food and choked the bonfire to darkness with a heavy blanket. The blackness of night stole over the clearing like a shadowed hand closing around them as the flames died away. Laurentius stood and made a bed of blankets beside Quelana, who did not look thrilled at the prospect of sleeping so close to the pyromancer. Chester, despite Patches pleas, looped a rope a few times around his midsection, binding him to the tree at his back like Solaire and the witch. Kirk pulled Abby to her feet and did the same, and then they were brushing free a clearing in the snow to make their own makeshift beds.

Kirk had been a heavy sleeper at the Archives, and clearly the woods made no difference to him: Solaire heard him snoring in less than a few minutes. Chester, however, was a different story. He knew the man slept light and with one eye practically held open. If Solaire was, somehow, able to work his way free of his binds (which, he believed, he could not without some blade to aide him) Chester would likely be upon him with his crossbow before he even stood.

And so, with little other option, he lowered his head, closed his eyes, and managed to drift off to sleep with the soft, sad, sounds of Abby quietly sobbing across the clearing.

-o-o-o-

He lifted his head sometime later, the dark that had fallen upon their clearing even blacker than when he'd shut his eyes, and heard movement in the night. Chester was sitting straight up, a grey blob in the dark. Solaire stilled his breath and listened. Rustling in every direction. _Surrounded_, he realized. _Whatever has come... it has us surrounded._

Chester's dark figure moved to wake Kirk.

"We are surrounded," Solaire whispered across the clearing.

"Shut up," Chester hissed back.

"Huh?" Kirk muttered, coming awake himself.

Movement rustled behind him, the sound of snowfall being crunched underfoot following. Another crunch to his left, and a third almost immediately directly in front. _Praise the sun, it's everywhere_, Solaire thought. He turned to the witch, unsure of what powers she could use to help bound up the way she was and whispered, "My lady, oh, er- Quelana? Are you awake?"

Her figure was pitch black in the night. It stirred only slightly. "Yes," she said quietly and nothing more.

"What is it?" Laurentius whispered, awake himself now, and crawling over to join Chester and Kirk. "Dogs?"

"Doubtful," Chester answered.

"Light your glove," Kirk said.

"Are you a fool?" Quelana snapped at the man. "Have you considered that whatever it is doesn't know we're here?"

"Call me a fool again, witch," Kirk hissed angrily. "See what happens." He began to rise and move towards her until Chester pulled him back down.

"Quiet! Listen!"

The snow all around them was being trampled in, and now, finally, Solaire could see figures coming in the dark; figures coming forth from every inch of the forest, as if the forest itself had come to serve them judgement for their sins. Tall ones swayed forth drunkenly, shaking in the dim slivers of moonlight that penetrated the treetops. Shorter ones scrambled near, uncaring of the noise they brought with them. Big, wide, and slow ones stalked forth, their footfalls shaking at the earth with every step.

"Gods save us..." Patches muttered from his right. "What's going on?"

"The forest has come to give you your judgement," Solaire said. "Give _all_ of you your judgement."

"Chester..." Laurentius whispered, the fear apparent in his trembling voice. "By the Gods, what's happening?"

"Burn whatever it is," Kirk demanded. "Shoot it, too, with that damned crossbow. What are you fools waiting for? Start _fighting_!"

"_No_," the girl's voice came so loudly and confidently, Solaire jumped a bit in his ropes; he hadn't even realized she was awake. "They mean you no harm. Light your fire."

"Piss on that!" Kirk snapped. "Girl's mad! Start _shooting, _Chester!"

"You'd only be throwing our lives away if you do," Abby said.

Chester stood, his dark silhouette rising against the moonlight behind him, and aimed the crossbow at the area of the clearing where Abby was bound. "And how could you know such a thing, girl?"

"They spoke to me in my dreams," she said. "And I spoke to them. They won't harm you. They wish only to see us past these woods quickly."

"_Why_?" Laurentius questioned.

"You're listening to a silly little _girl_, pyromancer?" Kirk shouted.

"Because they are like you," Abby went on. "They want to live. To survive. Just like any of us. I see that now. I understand it."

"I'm going to cut that girl's throat if she opens her mouth again!" Kirk yelled and moved towards her-

-but Laurentius sparked his glove, and the clearing came alive with light. The edges and surrounding forest did too.

"_Praise the sun_..." Solaire whispered, his breath caught in his chest.

They weren't just surrounded, they were absolutely _smothered_ in the creatures of the woods. Trees that had come to life stood choking off every exit, their branches warped and blackened and decaying, their leaves almost all gone and dead. They shook as the wind blew past, their feet rooted in the thick snow beneath them. Behind them, the Mushroom People of the forest had gathered as well. The children began their queer, bird-like, wailing and hopped from foot to foot as the larger, adult, mushrooms stood, eery and quiet, staring into the clearing. Solaire swallowed and tried looking beyond the front lines of the forest army, but could see nothing but more trees ambling forth, more mushroom people trudging onwards, more children skipping along in the snow playfully. There were dozens, maybe hundreds, and they had all come to gather around their group.

Even Kirk's courage had fled from him. "Gods... what the hell is this...?"

Laurentius' hand was shaking so badly, the light his glove's fire was giving off began dancing off the nearby trees and mushroom people in violent vibrations. Chester reached up and clamped down on his arm to steady him. "W-we're t-t-through," he whispered. "D-dead."

"They only wish to see me safely through the forest," Abby said, and almost on cue, a little mushroom child wobbled forth and knelt beside the tree she was bound to. He brought his head to her ropes and began gnawing at them.

"That thing is _freeing_ her!" Kirk shouted.

"I see that," Chester said. "Unfortunate, but there's nothing I think we can do about this anymore." He lifted his crossbow to Abby. "Except slaughter the girl if these things attack us. You hear that, girl? If we die, _you_ die."

"They are aware, or you'd already be dead," Abby said. The ropes dropped away from her body, and the mushroom child crawled forth to her hands to repeat the process. When the binds locking her hands together came free, she smiled and laid them upon the child's head. "Thank you, friend." She pointed at Quelana. "Her too. And the knight," she added, smiling at Solaire.

"You won't take her from me!" Laurentius demanded, taking a defensive step towards Quelana. "She is... she is _mine_!"

"I can not stop you from coming with us when we leave these woods," Abby pointed out. "You're free to follow along."

"Abby..." Quelana's voice came in the dark. She stood, her ropes falling from her body as she did, and the mushroom child crawled over to Solaire and began freeing him as well. "These men will kill us the second we are free of the forest. Please. _Leave_ them!"

Abby moved forth and took Quelana's hands in her own. "I can't force them to do as I say. I am not their ruler. I am their _savior_."

"Savior?" Quelana echoed.

The girl's smile widened, she leaned forward, pressed her lips to the witch's cheek, and kissed. "It is clear to me now. The forest has lifted a fog of uncertainty from my mind, removed the veil of confusion from my heart. They told me my purpose, Quelana, and it's wonderful! I _will_ light the Kiln of the First Flame. I _will_ save this world!"

"She's bloody mad," Patches muttered.

The witch's face didn't seem to share the sentiment. Quelana's eyes had narrowed considerably on Abby's own, her hands clutched dearly to her shoulders. "How do you know, Abby? How can you be so _sure_?"

"Because they will help me," Abby said, gesturing to the creatures of the forest. "And not just them, Quelana. There is an army awaiting my command in Anor Londo. If I need them, they will guide me to this 'Gwyn' and seem there safe."

"An _army_?" Laurentius interjected. "By the Gods, is the mad girl speaking of the _hollows_?"

"This is insanity," Kirk whispered, but he did not move, and his face was locked in an almost dream-like stare of wonder.

Solaire's ropes came free from his body. He clambered slowly and painfully to his feet, grasping the tree behind him for aid. Abby was watching him, that strange little smile upon her lips, as if she knew some great secret that the world had not yet discovered. Solaire swallowed, looked from her to the witch to the men behind her shoulder. When his eyes returned to hers, he raised his chin and pushed out his chest and felt the wonderful surge of purpose that he had missing since the cravens had betrayed him return to his spirits. "My lady," he said and dropped to one knee before her. "If you would accept me, I would serve you until the end of my days and beyond. I am yours to command if you'll have me."

The girl's smile widened, her blue eyes twinkling in the pyromancer's flame. "I shall. Rise, knight. You are a good man, and have nothing to fear. The world _will_ go on, and so will you."

She laid a hand upon his shoulder and Solaire felt a deep, profound, sense of peace come over him. His every anxiety, his every _fear_, seemed to melt away. Her touch was like that of the Sun's, warm and kind and gentle, and when she bent forward and kissed his brow, Solaire felt as though his entire _soul _had been cleansed of the wickedness the world had laid upon it. "Praise the Sun," he muttered, the only words he thought he could.

"Praise the Sun," she returned and released him.

"Kill that mad bitch, Chester," Kirk stammered. "Kill her before she brings the whole forest down on us!"

"If I kill her, the whole forest likely _will_ come down on us," Chester retorted. He narrowed his eyes on Abby and cocked his head to the side. "So what's it going to be, girl? Do we all just... simply _walk_ out of here? Or do we all die here tonight?"

"I am leaving," Abby answered immediately. "I must go to my army. They are awaiting me. Before that, I am willing to stop at these 'Archives' you speak of and meet with your leader there. I will inform him of my intentions." She stopped and looked around the woods. "And I will not be alone."

Solaire turned to see a path was opening up in the forest. Living trees and mushroom people alike were shuffling aside to let something draw near to the clearing. They all waited patiently as whatever it was came closer and closer, until the tree standing sentinel at the very edge stood aside. From between them, a wolf stalked forth, its fur as grey as ash, its snout as black as the night. Abby lowered to one knee and held out her hand, and the wolf trotted forth to lay his muzzle in it.

"That's Sif..." Laurentius said, stunned.

"Impossible," Chester said. "The Great Wolf Sif stands twelve feet tall. That's a _pup_ compared to him."

"No, that's _Sif_, Chester, I swear it!" Laurentius whispered. "I was _there_ when the Chosen Undead killed the beast. He looked _exactly_ like that except, well, yes, smaller."

"If the beast is dead, how could it be standing before us?" Kirk asked.

"All the dead have risen," Laurentius went on. "They have returned, some mutilated, some deformed, some... _small_. But they have _all_ been clawing their way back from the grave for one last go. One last stand as the world fades to darkness and the coldness that threatens to overtake it."

Solaire swallowed his trepidation. _This is a dream_, he realized. _These events are impossible. I must wake up. I must wake up. I must wake up. _But by the time he was done pleading with himself, the reality of it all sunk in. He rubbed his hands together, felt the cold on them. He breathed in the night air and let it sit in his lungs. He kicked at the snow under his boots and felt the weight of it. _It's real, _he thought. _This is actually happening._

"Quelana, Solaire," Abby said, standing from the wolf at her feet and extending her arms. "Come, take my hands." The witch moved forth immediately, and Solaire followed. "The both of you as well as this wolf are to be my protectors. I saw this in my dream. Will you accept?"

"Yes," Quelana answered.

"Y-Yes, my lady," Solaire said.

Abby smiled, nodded, and turned to the men huddled at the opposite end of the clearing. "_You_ three are bad men... but it is not my place to lay forth your judgement. That time will come when that time comes. My friends and I are leaving these woods. The inhabitants of them will slaughter you if you stay, so if you're wise, you'd follow along as quickly as you can."

The three of them stared forth in quiet awe. Kirk opened his mouth, but Chester elbowed his gut and shook his head. "Okay," was all the crossbowmen said.

"If you attempt to harm me or my friends, this wolf will take out your throat. That is not _my_ wish, but _his_. Do you understand?"

Laurentius licked at his lips and frantically nodded his head. "Yes."

Abby nodded and looked upon Patches. He was the last one still in ropes. "And _you_... you killed Lautrec. Though he was a quiet man and at times a cold one... he was _also_ my friend and I believe a good man."

Patches was shaking in his ropes. "M-Mercy, girl. P-please. _Mercy_!"

Abby only stared at him. Solaire saw a cruelty flash across her eyes that he could never had imagined would have come from such a sweet little thing. But it was gone as quick as it came. "If I left you there, the forest creatures would kill you. Painfully."

Patches began sobbing.

"But I will _never_ let myself become as cruel and wicked as you," Abby explained. She looked to one of the mushroom children and nodded and the little creature scrambled forth to untie the bald man.

"Oh, Gods, thank you, sweet girl," Patches began blubbering. "Thank you."

"I don't ever wish to look upon your terrible face again," Abby told him. "When we leave the forest... you are on your own."

"Y-Yes, sweet girl," Patches agreed. "You are merciful and kind."

Abby turned back to face Solaire and the witch beside him. Her little, soft, hand gave his own a squeeze. "My life, until we reach Anor Londo, is in your hands. I could not have asked for better hands to see me forth, though. We must go. The creatures of the forest wish for us to make haste."

"Yes, my lady," Solaire said, bowing. He spied his sword laying over beside Chester's pack and moved to retrieve it. When his fingers wrapped around it, it felt like the piece of him that had been missing returned. Chester's eyes squinted beneath his Jester's mask, but Solaire only smiled in return.

"Quickly now, Solaire," Abby said, sticking her elbow out so that he may step beside her and take it in his own.

"Abby... why do we need to _make_ such haste?" Quelana asked, stepping to the girl's other side and clutching to her arm. "What did you see in your dream?"

The girl's face darkened slightly. "...the end. It is closer than any of us could have thought." And with that, she said no more.

Their party headed off as the sun began rising over the Eastern stand of trees and mountains; Solaire and Quelana at either of Abby's sides, holding dear to her arms; the grey wolf trailing along before them, scouting the way; Kirk, Chester, and Laurentius, shuffling cautiously forward, their weapons at the ready to defend themselves from attack; Patches hobbling forth at the rear, nursing his smashed hand and swiping tears from his eyes.

And of course the forest and its inhabitants, watching them go.

_But they're not just watching, _Solaire realized as he passed a mushroom creature with his big hand clutched to his chest, his children gathered at his feet, staring. _They're praying. They're wishing. They're _hoping. _Hoping the girl succeeds. Hoping that they live on_.

_Hoping that the sun rises on a warm day once more._

_ Praise it, _Solaire thought. _And let their hopes come true._


	13. Chapter 13

The boy watched the rain drops race each other down the window like two mighty steeds birthed from the oceans, slipping and winding and curving down the glass raceway until their lives came to a simultaneous and abrupt end at the window's sill. The boy drummed his fingers off the glass and watched more rain shake free and plummet to the damp grass below. He smiled. It reminded him of throwing stones into the ponds around Carim's Royal Bathhouse with his sister when they were more young, more free, and more prone to getting into trouble. The rain would be falling on the ponds now, and the boy wondered if he'd ever skip stones across them so freely again. He'd be entering training to be a squire soon enough, and if he was good enough, he'd become a knight like his father before him and _his_ father before _him_. Knights didn't have time for such pleasantries, a man he had admired as a boy in golden armor had told him once before riding off to some great adventure outside Carim's walls. The dreams of riding gallantly through Lordran, horseback, armed, and armored like that man, were almost enough to make the boy forget the silly games he had played with his sister at the ponds. Almost.

"Lautrec," his father's voice came, strong and firm, from over his shoulder.

Lautrec turned, smiled, and bowed. "Father."

His father was a cold man and did not return the smile. Instead, his big wide brow wrinkled into a frown as he spoke. "Are you daydreaming again, son?"

"No, father," Lautrec said.

His father shook his head. "No, Lautrec. You _are _dreaming. Even after I told you knight's need focus only on the weapon at hand and their opponent before them and leave the _dreaming_ to the artists. You have a soft heart, boy, but we'll fix that. For now, you need only wake up. "

"I don't understand. I was only watching the rain. I was-"

"Look again," his father commanded in that impossible-to-deny way only his father could.

Lautrec frowned, turned, and-

**-o-o-o-**

-Rose was beside him in bed. Her hair was a mess of sweaty tangles around her brow, and the upper half of her breasts were peeking out from beneath the bedsheets; milky white mounds that hinted at a wealth of treasure below. She bit at her lip and grinned and Lautrec shook his head to focus his mind. "I was dreaming," he told her.

Rose giggled. "It didn't _feel_ like you were dreaming," she whispered, leaned forward, and kissed his bottom lip. "My _knight_," she went on and kissed at his cheek, his neck, his shoulder.

Her lips were full and warm, and Lautrec nearly grabbed hold of her and kissed back, but there was a stir of trepidation in his chest that he could not shake free. "Rose... something very bad is about to happen to me."

Rose batted her lashes and her hands reached for his waist. "Oh? I don't think it will be so bad as long as the lights are low and I'm here beneath you, my big strong knight." She laughed and went to kiss him again.

He put a hand to her shoulder and pressed her back to the mattress. "You don't understand," he said and scooted off the bed. He walked naked to the oak cabinet at the foot of the bed and threw open the doors to dress himself in breeches and a tunic. It was as the last button was being buttoned that Devon appeared in his bedroom doorway. Lautrec turned on his friend and felt his heart sink and his stomach threaten to overturn. This was the bad thing coming for him.

"Lautrec, come with me," Devon said, his face as milky white as Rose's breasts, his voice as somber as a cold rain falling in the night.

"Father," Lautrec said without so much as thinking why.

Devon narrowed his eyes and his mouth fell partly agape. "Y-yes. How did you-"

"Who else..."

Devon looked to the bed behind Lautrec and swallowed. "I don't think this is a matter for _witches _to hear."

"Witches? That's Rose, you fool. She's-" Lautrec spoke, but when he turned back to the bed, Rose had disappeared from beneath the sheets, and a pale woman with dark hair and flames for hands had taken her place. "What have you done with her!?" Lautrec snapped, but Devon's hand gripped his arm and was pulling him away. He opened his mouth to shout, but his words were lost in the great and gaping chasms of time distortion. When his thoughts were his own once more, he was outside the squire barracks, and the night was aflame. Fires burned in every inch of Carim, the heat searing and close enough around them to water their eyes. The city square had descended into madness, men and women and children fleeing from their homes, screaming, crying, and screaming some more"_Why!?_" He managed over the chaos as people screamed and rushed past him and more cried and rushed _through_ him. "_Why has this happened_!?"

"They knew of the passageway," Devon's voice came from a mile away, though he was standing right beside Lautrec. "They had an insider. Lautrec... they're all dead. Your family. I'm... sorry."

The sky was black on the horizon, the clunky figures of buildings drew jagged lines along it, and now those lines were bleeding red and orange into the night. The wind chilled, the rain turned to snow, and his side screamed in agony. When he looked down upon it, a red blotch was blossoming from his tunic like a flower beside the Royal Bathhouse ponds in spring where he had played as a boy. "Fire..." he muttered, and he felt his cheeks moisten with what might have been rain or might have been snow or might have been tears. "The witch...?"

"It's not the witch you need worry about now, my friend," Devon said, laying his hand on Lautrec's shoulder. Lautrec was horrified to see his childhood friend had grown bronze horns from beneath his mop of brown hair, and when he spoke, his words were strangely accentuated. "It's the _dogs_, Lautrec. And the _cold_."

As Devon said the word _cold_, the wind kicked even harder, and Lautrec felt his leg snap beneath him, his wounded abdomen tore at his insides, his head felt fuzzy, weak, his strength fled from his entire body in an instant, like raindrops racing down a windowsill.

**-o-o-o-**

"What am I supposed to do?" He asked no one, his eyes flicked open, and he realized the dream was over. _And the nightmare begins, _Lautrec thought, and lifted his head to survey the surroundings.

He was in the lower Burg, nestled in a thick fall of snow that came up around him like a cocoon wrapping his body. His neck hurt upon lifting it, and his leg, which he was sure was smashed to bits, flared up in such agony, he threw his head back and screamed into the empty streets. His voice carried, echoing and bouncing off the crumbling buildings and decaying walls, and then he was left in a cold, damp, pit of suffocating silence. He forced his eyes to open again and look to the sky. It was dark, not quite _black_, but dark. He grit his teeth and looked to his side. The snow there was dyed a dark red, and Lautrec cursed when he saw just how _much_ dye had been laid. _I'm going to die here, _he thought, letting his head fall back to the pillow of snowfall it had been encased in. _I'm going to bleed to death here in the streets of the Gods-damned Burg. Patches... I turned my back on you one too many times and you finally stuck your knife in. _He couldn't blame the fool, only himself. He _had_ been expecting the betrayal after all. His hand reached for the wound, but when his fingers grazed it at his side, the pain scraped through his body like a brush of needles and he had to tighten every bit of himself to keep from screaming again. _Stuck me in the side and not the throat. Bastard wanted me to suffer if I lived through the fall._

Somewhere deeper in the Burg, a dog howled.

Lautrec punched the cursed snow beneath his fist that had, unintentionally, prolonged his life. _I will not be eaten by dogs, _he thought, clawing at the snow to try and pull free from the pit he'd sunken into. _Let my blood leave my body until I am too cold to draw breath, but I will _not _be a meal for those beasts. At least... not a live feast. _He took a breath, dug his elbows into the snow at either of his sides, and pushed. The pain wrapped around his body in a grip of agony. His leg felt like it was being pulled straight off, and his wounded side screamed at him every time it scraped an icy patch of frozen snow. Still, Lautrec tightened his fists as tight as he ever had and forced himself to push on through the pain. His lower back and rear came free of the snow that had imprisoned them, and then he was rolling down a tuft of gentler, looser, snow. He came to a stop with his cheek pressed to the stone pavement of the Burg's street and his shoulder decided to join his leg and side in their symphony of pain. When he shifted it at an odd angle, the bone within caught fire and stabbed a dagger through his entire arm. He cried out again and flopped to his back, clutching at the injured shoulder and trying his best to keep his leg as still as possible, lest it join in and then the pain would likely be too much to bear to remain conscious.

He laid still awhile, sucking cold air through clenched teeth and watching fresh snow dropping lazily from the dark skies to rest upon his face. Another howl came, closer now, and Lautrec realized he didn't have the _time_ to rest. He looked to his left, to his right, and tried orienting himself. _Too far from Domhnall's, _he thought. _This is a whole different section of the Lower Burg I've never even seen. Likely abandoned. Your only hope is yourself, Lautrec. A knight focuses on his weapon at hand and his opponent before him. _His good arm grasped weakly at his sheath for his shotel and came up empty. He forced his head to lift and saw he hadn't just _missed_, the weapon was gone, likely flung free in the fall from the bridge. He cursed and looked to the other sheath. His second shotel was still there, though the handle and the blade looked oddly unaligned. He reached across his body, wincing, and ripped it free. The weapon had gone a bit crooked, but it would still swing, still _kill_, and it felt good in his hand. _Let them come, _Lautrec thought. _Let the dogs come and it will be I who feasts on _them.

He surveyed the perimeter. Two wide streets wound away from him at either of his sides, their sidewalks caked with snow, their roads layered in ice. An alleyway poked out of the dark on one end, an arched passageway spilled into some other part of the city at the other. _If they swarm me, it's over, _Lautrec thought. He looked behind him to the nearest building. The door was on its hinges, but it was an old, warped and wooden, thing, and he thought he might be able to kick it open if he could get his good leg in front of it.

The baleful and ominous sound of paws scraping at the icy streets filled the night. Lautrec had no more time for planning. He took another breath, readied his mind for the pain that would surely follow, and threw his shotel back to dig into a patch of snow behind him. It bit the snow, Lautrec turned on his side (clenching his jaw to fight through the flare of pain in his leg, shoulder, and side), and pulled. His limp and partially useless body slid forward on the ice a few inches. He wrestled the shotel free, threw, and dug again. He pulled, pain threatening to spill his mind into the dark void of unconsciousness, and when he had moved a few inches, repeated the process.

The dogs were seeping into the streets, liquid shadows stalking forth in the night, by the time he'd finally gotten positioned in front of the wooden door. He glanced down the roads at them coming from every angle-materializing from every shadow and nook the Burg had to offer-and entrenched his arms in the snow at his sides before leaning into his upper back and positioning his good leg towards the door. "Come on," Lautrec whispered, and again the blanket of black threatened to shut his eyes. He shook his head, focused, and shouted as he drove his foot into the wood.

It shuddered a bit, and a damp _thud_ accompanied the blow, but it was otherwise indifferent to his attack. Lautrec cursed the door and took a moment to deal with the pain his kick had awoken in his other leg. He stole a glance down one end of the road and saw the dogs were rapidly approaching, skittering forth with their snouts lowered to the ground. He swallowed his pain, focused on the door again, and kicked.

He missed, the steel of his golden boot scraping loudly against the stone foundation that made up the doorway's arched lining. _How could I possibly miss something right in front of me!? _He grunted, punched at the snow, and kicked again. This time the blow landed, but the door shrugged off the attack with as much indifference as the first blow.

He could smell their breath now, hear their tongues lolling about in their enormous mouths, licking at the fangs within. He was getting ready to kick again when movement caught in his periphery. One bold dog had broken free from the pack and was darting towards him with its jaw snapping, its eyes rolling, its paws digging at the street to hurry its attack. Lautrec cocked his shotel back in a wide arc, waited til the beast neared, and slashed it across the monster's throat just as it leapt for him. The blade cut through the dog's flesh easy enough, and Lautrec was doused in a warm spray of blood as it's limp body flailed past him to slide and come to a motionless halt in the snow. The sight of a fallen pack member seemed to enrage the beasts further, and a chorus of growls filled the air.

His window of time rapidly slamming shut, Lautrec roared a war cry and began thundering his boot into the wooden door in rapid succession. On the fifth kick, he twisted onto his bad shoulder by mistake and an explosion ripped through his entire arm, from joint to joint to wrist and back. He yelled, fell back to the snow, and when his head smacked the cold, wet, street, he felt the dark coming again. He winced and looked to his left, but the street was gone, and Rose with her milky breasts peeking from under the blankets had returned. "Come to bed, Lautrec," she whispered.

"_No_!" He shouted, snapping his eyes open. _If I slip under for even a moment, they will swarm me, _he thought, fighting to stay awake.

He weakly drove his boot into the door once more. It didn't budge, and when he tried again, his leg fell away from the door with an exhaustion he could not fight through. The dogs pattered forth, their talon-like feet clicking on the icy roads, their growls growing so loud and ubiquitous, Lautrec felt they were no longer living only in the street, but in his head as well; in his _soul._

"Knight," the voice came from beside him, and it was no longer Rose's. He turned to see Quelana laying beside him. She reached out and put her hand to his face, and her fingers were as warm as fire itself. "Come with me."

"...burn them..." he managed to croak as his eyelids turned to steel, threatening to close over the eyes within forever. "..._help_ me..."

Quelana's smiled, it looked unnatural and queer on her pale face. She shook her head. "You don't need anyone's help, remember? A knight's concerns are the weapon at hand and the opponent before him. Not me. Not help." It was his father's voice coming from the witch's lips.

"I do... help me..." he groaned, dog breath on his face now, warm and moist and foul. "...witch..."

Teeth sunk into his arm.

**-o-o-o-**

"That's the thing about reality," Devon said, his voice slightly distorted by the leaf of grass he chewed in the side of his mouth. "It's hard sometimes to tell what's what, you know? Dreams... they say that's the Gods talking to you. I don't know. You believe that?"

Lautrec lifted his head and a fog fell from his vision. The countryside came into clear view around him, a wash of greens and blues and yellow and red flowers. It was spring, and the air had a freshness to it that only spring could. Trees sprouted up from the ground along the path they rode, and a flock of birds sat in their branches, chirping and singing. He was on horseback, a knight like the boy he had been had always hoped, and Devon was beside him on a white mare of his own, garnished in grey steel and dark leathers. Lautrec put a hand to his head and turned to his friend, confused. "What were you saying? I think... I was having the strangest dream."

Devon looked to him and raised an eyebrow. The horse's hooves clopping along the paved road was the only sound accompanying them as his friend's mouth curled into a grin and laughed. "Nothing. Nothing at all, Lautrec."

"Where are we?" Lautrec asked. He put a hand to his side to check for blood or injury and, thankfully, came up with neither.

"Going to get Ana. That _is_ what you wanted, right?" Devon asked. "It was as _you_ that said she's supposed to be down this way. Me? I was happy back in Carim. There were _girls_ there," he said, his grin widening, "and I'd have something a whole lot prettier than this mare between my legs."

Lautrec looked to the sky, listening to the _clop clop clop_ of his horse's hooves, and squinted at the odd, pastel, coloring of the clouds. The sun was there beside them, and it was yellow again; yellow and full and warm and alive. "This is a dream, Devon," Lautrec said, turning from the sky. "_Our_ sun is dead." He stared at the features of his friend's face and could see the future that awaited him, awaited _both _of them. Clarity, for once, entered his mind: he was dreaming of the past. "We will be taken by surprise a ways down the road by Oswald and a band of his men. They've been sent to stop us. To... absolve us of our sins."

"Oswald?" Devon questioned. "The pardoner? Velka's Servant?"

Lautrec nodded. "They catch us, Devon, and you lose your life. Sorry about that. I didn't mean to get you dragged into this whole thing. I only wanted to catch up with Ana and... make things right." Devon said nothing, so Lautrec went on. "You'll be dead and I'll be taken prisoner and locked up in the attic of the Parish's church." He stared bitterly at those dreamlike clouds. Below them, the faint outline of the church was coming into view as their horses drew near. "And that is to be my fate for eternity. Locked in an endless cycle of this one, terrible, day. In a way, Devon, _you_ were the one who caught the Gods' favor on this day. You get to rest. Me? ...I must solider on... maybe forever."

Devon laughed. "Quite the story, my friend. You think that up while you were daydreaming watching those clouds?"

"I wasn't daydreaming," Lautrec snapped.

"Lautrec," Devon said with another laugh. "You _are_ dreaming."

"I was only watching the clouds. I-"

"Look again," Devon said.

**-o-o-o-**

Lautrec looked. The sky was no longer that perfect blend of blue and white. It was black; black as his mother and father's charred corpses. Hands were on him, holding him by the waist, and he was wracked with so much pain he could barely think. It was cold again and a torch bearer was before him, swinging their flaming stick in the night like a mad man. Lautrec groaned and began struggling in the arms of his captor. It was cold. Wind raked across his face as he fought.

"Stop it, young fellow! _Stop_ it, you hear?" A voice, gruff and as haggard as the crumbling buildings of the Burg around them, came from his shoulder. "You want to get us _all_ killed?"

"Let... go..." Lautrec managed, but his eyes were drooping shut again. He shook his head to keep them alert.  
"Andre, they're coming!" The torchbearer's voice pleaded in the night. It was the voice of a young woman, muffled beneath a helm.

_Andre? Not Domhnall. No, of course not. Domhnall is small... this man is... big... the blacksmith? _Lautrec wondered. He tried wrestling free of the man's grip again, but the arms around his waist were like iron trunks coiling him.

"Fall back, woman," the man's gruff voice barked. "Fall _back_! Drop the torch, get your shield up and fall _back_!"

Lautrec's head slumped to his chest, and when the torch went out, so did his consciousness.

**-o-o-o-**

Lautrec could not be sure, but he believed the next time he opened his eyes, he had slept for a long, _long_, time. The sleep had been, graciously, dreamless, and when his vision focused and the brown, drab, ceiling of the church's attic came into view, he was sure the dreaming part of his pain and injury were over. He knew that ceiling well; it was, perhaps, the most real thing he knew of in Lordran. He swallowed, took a breath, and lifted his head enough to peer down at his body. It was lying on a cot in his prison, and his leg and side were bandaged. His right shoulder was in a sling, pressed to his body, and he could feel the bone within had been reset.

"The cycle..." he croaked, his voice coarse and dry from lack of use. _This is not the cycle repeating, _he told himself, though he wasn't sure if he was telling himself the truth, or something he could not bear to hear otherwise. _Your leg is still hurt. Your shoulder. Your side. If you had died and this whole thing had reset... you would be healthy again. _He lied still, staring at the ceiling he had stared at for long, long, hours in another life, another time. _...unless we broke the cycle by going to the Asylum... and the only thing we changed was that now our_ pain _follows us from one life to the next._

It was with those torturous thoughts he laid there pondering for a time, too afraid to move and shatter some bone that had not yet healed, when the woman appeared behind the barred door of his cell. Her appearance startled him so deeply, he jerked on the cot and nearly rolled off its edge. His side hurt, but nothing like it had before. He laid still again and set his eyes upon the woman watching him. She was tall, square-shouldered, and had none of the beauty Quelana possessed. Her hair was a mousy shade of brown, hanging over her forehead in unkempt bangs, and her nose was round and lightly freckled. She watched him for awhile, hazel eyes peering carefully beneath those bangs, before she spoke. "Are you Lautrec?"

Her voice was almost comically sweet, as if a child had stolen into the woman's body and taken the vocal chords for her own. Lautrec took a breath and shifted a bit on the cot, feeling the pressure mount in his bandaged leg. He saw no point of lying; not anymore. "Yes."

The woman nodded, pursing her lips and watching him just as carefully. "Andre says you're a murderer. Is that true?"

"I'm a knight. All knight's are murderers."

"But not all knight's kill innocent, defenseless, woman."

"No, and neither does this knight."

She frowned, and the expression made her plain face into an ugly one. "Then you _deny_ your intention to hunt down and murder Anastacia of Astora?"

"No," he said, scoffing at the word _'Astora'._ "But Anastacia is no innocent woman."

The woman stared at him for a long while then, pursing out her lips and shifting from foot to foot. "We saved your life, you know."

"I do know," Lautrec said. "You have my gratitude."

"We spotted you yesterday from afar. On the bridge? We didn't make it in time for whatever commotion went on there. Thought maybe you were with Domhnall of Zena. We're looking for him."

Though the woman hadn't _asked_, Lautrec knew she was waiting for an answer nonetheless. "Yes, I met him. He is in the Burg, though quite a bit further on than I was. He is alive. Safe. He gave me and my traveling companions food and shelter for two nights."

"You can take us to him then?"

"If I wasn't in a cage? Absolutely."

The woman scoffed. "It's not going to be that easy. Andre doesn't know what to make of you. Why were you and your 'companions' so far from the Archives? No one wonders that far anymore unless they have a death wish."

"Clearly, _you_ did..." Lautrec pointed out.

"We have our reasons," the woman said. "And they're none of your business."

"And yet you demand to know _my _business?"

The woman smirked and it turned her plain-face into a... slightly _less _plain face. "That's right. That's the benefit of being on _this_ side of the cell door."

Lautrec sighed. He could joust with this woman for another hour, but it would likely do him no good. "I've come from the Undead Asylum... and possible even another world. My companions and I were heading to these 'Archives' you speak of to learn more about what is happening to the world. Why it seems to be... dying. I can see by that look on your face that you think I'm lying, but I assure you I am not. None of us were aware of the state of Lordran when the great crow carried us here from the Asylum." He waited for her to refute him. When she didn't, he went on. "We were ambushed on the bridge by a group of men. I believe the Knight Solaire was amongst them, as a captive. I recognized his armor."

The girl's mouth fell agape and her eyes widened. She laced her fingers together and held them to her heart. "Go on..." she pleaded.

Lautrec raised a brow at the girl's strange reaction. "This is information you wish to hear?"

She swallowed, nodded.

"Then open this cage up and let us talk in more... _open_ confines."

She quickly shook her head. "No, I can't! Andre wouldn't let me! _Please_! Just tell me who was with Solaire!"

"Open the door, and I will," Lautrec told her.

"I don't have a _key_," she pleaded, grabbing the bars and squeezing them until her knuckles went white.

"Then my memory seems to fail me."

"_Please_!" She shouted, her brow creased, and tears swelled in her eyes.

Lautrec was taken aback by the woman's reaction. He stared at her for a moment. _This information is the only thing you have that is of value to her, _he thought. _Throw it away here... and you may never see the outside of this cell. _

"...please..." she tried once more.

_This is the _girl's _influence on you, _he thought. _Abby... how proud your naive little face would grow if you saw such sickening kindness. _He sighed. "The Knight of Thorns was among them. Kirk, his name is. Ugly man, not much in a straight fight. Laurentius the Pyromancer. A third man in a top hat and a mask with a crossbow was with them, too. I believe I heard him called 'Chester'." The woman's eyes were locked onto his, waiting, and so he added, "That was all. If there were anymore, they weren't on the bridge."

"No..." she whimpered, and the tears that were only swelling in her eyes earlier now burst to the surface and rolled down her freckled cheeks. "You didn't see a man in large, round, armor? Siegmeyer, his name is. You didn't see a man like that?"

"No," Lautrec told her honestly, wondering what importance the man could possible hold. "I know of the knight. He certainly wasn't among them. Hails from Catarina, no?"

The woman's lip quivered, she sniffled and rubbed her palm into her eye. "Y-Yes. I am Sieglinde. He is... my father. And now, I suppose... he is no more..." With that, the woman burst into sobs, turned, and rushed away from the cell door.

"_Wait!_" Lautrec called after her, but when he moved to stand, a bolt of pain took his entire right side and he had to clench his fists and lay back against the cot til it passed.

Wounded and caged, Lautrec could do nothing but await her return, and soon enough he had drifted to sleep. His dreams were plagued with visions of fires and screaming, of burnt corpses and of promise made in the darkness of night.

And of a whole man's life thrown away by the actions of a girl he used to skip stones with at the ponds.


	14. Chapter 14

Anor Londo, from their vantage point high above its streets along the outer wall, was a breathtaking display of human architecture; buildings on top of buildings, wide and winding streets wrapping the lower levels, great stone statues watching over the upper ones, polished gold trimming around massive panes of stained glass colorfully decorated with scenes of warriors and beasts and landscapes unlike anything Quelana had ever heard about. Looking out upon it all as the pale sun was lowering behind the Western stand of towers and churches, she found herself clutching dearly to Abby's robed arm beside her and forcing her breathing to remain calm. She could not understand why any creature would want to build such a massive, confusing, maze of stone and glass, even as beautiful as it was. Abby's hand reached out and took her own, giving it a squeeze. Quelana forced an uneasy smile at the girl and lowered her gaze from the city sprawled before her to her hand. "Thank you."

Abby returned the smile and looked to Anor Londo herself. The sight didn't bother her at all; in fact, it seemed to have quite the opposite affect. The girl's eyes were narrowed in determination, the last bit of pale sun washing her face in a warm glow. "They are out there, Quelana. They are waiting for me."

Quelana swallowed and forced a nervous glance back to the city. Abby hadn't been very talkative since the night in the forest when the creatures of the woods had come to free them, but when she _did_ speak, it was only of this 'army' that waited them in Anor Londo: an army of hollowed soldiers and demons and beasts alike. The very thought of it made Quelana want to grab the girl and steal her away back to Blighttown where it was safe; where she could protect her. She'd learned, though, that whatever was happening to Abby was beyond her understanding. The more they traveled, the more convinced Quelana became that the girl was not just _sure_ of herself, but absolutely convinced she knew what she was doing. She soldiered forward now in a zealous, relentless, way that Quelana had seen only in her most pious of pupils back in Blighttown.

And so, when Abby squeezed her hand and stared into the city, Quelana only sighed and stared herself. "Will they hurt you?" She asked after a long moment of silence.

Abby squinted. "I don't believe so. They want me to succeed. I don't see what harming me would accomplish." At that moment, the grey wolf that had been accompanying them since the forest wrestled its way between them and rubbed its head against Abby's leg. Abby smiled and lowered her hand to stroke his fur. "And me new friend here will protect me." She lifted her gaze. "As will you and the Warrior of the Sun, Solaire. I do not doubt your abilities. I will... I _am_ in good hands."

Quelana nodded, turning back to look at the 'sun warrior' and the rest of their traveling companions waiting a bit further down the wall. The masked crossbowmen, Chester, had slipped away from them in the woods the first night they set out, but the rest had seemed too frightened of either the wolf, of Solaire, or of _her_ to attempt a similar trick, and so they remained in their company. Both Kirk and Laurentius looked miserable and anxious to return to whatever home awaited them all at this 'Duke's Archives' they spoke of. Patches hadn't said a word since leaving the forest, choosing instead to cradle his smashed hand and do his best to stay out of everyone's way. Quelana had pleaded with Abby to allow her to either dispose of the men or send them on their way, but Abby was insistent on 'not dealing judgement' like 'savage executioners', and so Quelana held her tongue-and her anger-and simply avoided looking at or speaking with the men on their travels. Solaire, at least, was keeping a vigilant eye on them, his straight sword never leaving his hand the entire time.

The moment when the power would shift was nearly upon them, though, and Quelana could feel it coming like many a storm she'd seen brewing high above Blighttown in younger years; baleful and ominous darkness ready to crash down upon them in a flash. She turned back to Abby and leaned above the wolf to speak quietly. "Abby... if you are insistent on meeting with this 'Logan' man that they claim leads the humans now, please exercise every bit of caution. Any man who send savages like those out on a mission can not be very trustworthy."

"Solaire speaks highly of him," Abby said, scratching the wolf under its snout. "And Solaire is a good man. Perhaps this Logan, like Solaire himself, was deceived by the other men's cruelties."

"Then a man who could be _deceived _so easily is not trustworthy either," Quelana warned. "Not to mention the merchant from the Burg, Domhnall, didn't seem to care for the man..."

"Quelana... if the last of my species is gathered under one roof, I _have_ to meet with them. Once I set foot in Anor Londo..." She paused, staring absently down to the city streets below the wall. "There is no turning back. I'd like to see them. I'd like to look upon their faces. It will give me strength if I should ever find myself lacking in the coming endeavors."

Quelana shifted uncomfortably. The more the girl spoke of her 'quest', the more it sounded like a suicide mission. She wasn't sure what would happen when and if Abby lit this bonfire at the Kiln of the First Flame, and that unknown element frightened her more than any of the looming towers of massive stone before her. She'd asked Abby about what would happen at the end of all this the first night they were free in the forest, but Abby had avoided the subject, and so she'd probed no further. _If this quest costs the girl her life, _Quelana thought, _can it truly be worth it? I can only hope that this Logan and his men have some other plan the girl will listen to. Some other answer to the cold. And to the dark. _All _of our lives seem to hang in the balance of what awaits us at the 'Duke's Archives'. _She lifted her gaze to the Northwest, where the silhouette of a cluster of rounded towers stood caked with heavy snowfall. The castle loomed high over Anor Londo, high over _them_, as if it were watching. As if it were waiting.

"I suppose we should move if we want to stay ahead of the dark," Abby said, tracing the line of Quelana's eyes to the Archives herself. She ruffled the wolf's fur between the ears and the beast licked at her fingers and set off at a trot towards the arched section of wall that looked to wrap and wind up to an entrance of some sort. "Are you ready?" She asked, and when Quelana-with some hesitation-nodded, Abby smiled and stuck out her hand for Quelana to take.

"My ladies," Solaire greeted them further down the wall. He cast a wary eye at the three men who stood beside him. "If we are to depart, let these cravens take point. I shall stay close behind them at the ready for any trickery or deceptions. When we reach the Archives, I will inform Logan of their treacherous actions."

Kirk snorted and spit at the knight's boots, Laurentius lowered his face shamefully so that his hood hid him, and Patches avoided eye contact with any of them, rubbing at his bandaged hand. None said anything back to the knight, however, and so Abby nodded, Solaire bowed to her, and they were off. Quelana glanced back over her shoulder at the sprawling city of white and gold below them, thankful to be away from its enormous, dizzying, presence.

The arched passage gave way to a great hall with a high ceiling and wide-set walls, at the end of which was a towering statue. As they neared, Quelana saw that it was of an enormous man in round plate armor, a tiny head protruding from its top, a massive great hammer clutched in its fists. Abby stared forth as they neared, her eyes fixed upon the stone figure. "That's the largest man I've ever seen." She turned to Solaire. "Was he really so big?"

"Afraid so, my lady," Solaire answered. The knight pointed forward with the tip of his sword. "He was the royal executioner of Anor Londo in his time." Solaire's face twisted into a grimace and he hesitated to continue for a moment before adding, "They say he grew so large because... he ate the bones of his victims."

"Oh..." Abby said, disheartened.

Solaire noticed her face and quickly shook his head. "But have no fear, my lady. The man is no more. He and his _friend_ were vanquished at the hands of... well, another Chosen."

Kirk snorted derisive laughter. "Seems all sorts of things that _should_ be dead _ain't_." The ugly knight fixed his dark eyes on Abby and sneered. "Best hope he ain't waiting to eat _your_ bones in Anor Londo, girl."

"Silence!" Solaire commanded, pointing his sword at the man; he'd at least unarmed them back in the forest, and so Kirk could only glare, spit, and turn back to continue marching on. Solaire lowered his sword and turned back to Abby, offering a comforting smile. "I assure you, my lady, the man is no more."

"How can you be so sure?" Quelana questioned.

Solaire was quiet a moment, his eyes resting upon the blade of his sword, then he said, "Because I helped the last Chosen Undead defeat him myself," and said no more on the topic.

The great hall ended, and a twist of stone stairs began. It wrapped above and around a cliffside that spilled down to the city before dumping them out to a short trek through a wooded area, at the end of which was a long tunnel carved into the side of the mountain. As they neared, their legs kicking through the heavy snowfall that plagued the entrance, men began pouring out of its entrance.

"Abby," Quelana whispered, halted, and snatched the girl's arm.

Abby allowed herself to be stopped, and Solaire moved forth with his sword drawn. His eyes swept the men that had come to meet them. Quelana recognized none of them until a shorter man walked up at the rear of the pack with a crossbow in his hands and a tophat and jester's mask covering his head and face.

"It's about damn time," Kirk snapped and stepped quickly up beside Chester. "Put a bolt in the sun knight's big mouth and then kill them bitches behind him too."

The grey wolf at Abby's feet began snarling and stalking forth beside Solaire, his fur on edge, his teeth barred. The men at the entrance way, a half-dozen armed and armored in total, all took a step away from the wolf. Solaire drew his shield up and watched the men intensely from behind it. "What is this? Logan would never stand for such-"

"Shut up, knight," Chester's voice came slightly muffled beneath his mask. "We're not going to attack."

Kirk looked disappointed. "Piss on that."

"Logan wants to speak with the girl," Chester said. "She's not to be harmed."

A tall, fat, man waddled forth in black chain mail, his straw-colored hair cut into a bowl around his thick brow. In his chubby fingers, he held iron manacles and fetters. When Solaire spotted them he drew his sword a bit higher. "What deception is this, Petrus? Logan would not have us brought forth in chains! If you expect me to lay down my-"

"It isn't for you or the girl, Solaire," the fat man, Petrus apparently, said. He nodded to Quelana. "It's for the girl's witch."

All eyes fell on Quelana, and she found herself desperately wishing she was in her own robes where she could _hide_ instead of these cumbersome leathers and wools that the humans wore. Abby looked from her back to the man and shook her head. "No. And she is Quelana, Mother of Pyromancy, not 'my witch'. She will not harm you, nor will my wolf or my knight," she said, and Quelana saw Solaire look to Abby confused for only a moment before a sense of pride painted his face. "We will not come bound in any way. You can take my terms to Logan. We will remain here."

The men stared forth at the young woman with the shaved head and the pretty blue eyes before them. Petrus' face was screwed up in a puzzled look. "My lady, we are not offering _terms_. This is how it must be. If you do not accept, we don't 'take your offer' back to Logan. We part ways."

Chester lifted his crossbow a bit higher. "Logan's no fool. He's not letting a witch with her kind of destructive power loose in our only solace from the world outside these walls." He looked to the wolf. "And your _pet_ is to be muzzled as well. Don't be a fool, girl. Logan is offering generous terms."

Abby was quiet for only a moment. "Fine," she said and a sense of relief seemed to wash over the men standing warily before Solaire and the wolf. Petrus nodded and moved forth with the manacles til Abby continued, "Then we must bid you farewell." He froze, raising an eyebrow. "Tell Logan that I'm sorry we couldn't meet." She turned to Quelana and that confident little smile was on her lips. "Come, Quelana. Solaire. Our path lies elsewhere."

Abby stepped between them, the wolf backing up beside her, and Quelana's eyes met Solaire's. They did not speak, but their shared look told the same story. _If we leave now, we leave into the cold night, alone and without supplies of any sort, _Quelana thought. _The knight will follow her, I can see the __loyalty in his eyes, but he knows what a grave error it would be. We are but three, and the dark unknown that awaits us might be numerous, might be _infinite, _and to turn down both shelter and possible aid would be a fool's decision. _Quelana looked down to the path that wound back towards the city. She could see the enormous buildings there, and the darkness that was stealing over them as night set upon Lordran. _These men have us at a disadvantage and they know it, but what other choice do we have? _"Abby," she called. "Wait."

A look of relief came to Solaire's face. He nodded and turned to Abby, who had turned back but did not begin moving forward again. "I know Logan is a good man," Solaire said, approaching each word slowly and thoughtfully. "I... I can give you my word he will not have us harmed if we accept these conditions."

"These _conditions _are ridiculous!" Abby snapped, the wolf's anger seemingly tied to her own as it started growling. "What reason do they have to fear any of us? We've done nothing to them!"

"Tis only a caution, Abby," Quelana said, her words sounding weak and deceptive in her own ears. "The wolf and myself are dangerous. If the roles were reversed, we would be exercising the same precautions. Let them chain me."

"Your sword, knight," Petrus commanded of Solaire.

Solaire looked from the man to Quelana to Abby's puzzled face. He sighed, the _clank_ of the sword falling to the fat man's feet resounding through the clearing. "Logan. He is... a good man," Solaire repeated. "He will bring us back the sun."

Abby's wide, blue eyes flicked from Solaire to Quelana. Quelana nodded, and Abby's face scrunched up angrily. She turned back to Anor Londo and stared at the city for a long moment before her shoulders slumped and she faced the men once more. "There is an army in that city. It awaits me to lead it. If any harm should befall me or my friends..."

"I'm sure it will come and smash us all to bits," Chester finished for her. "Can we hurry this up? Night comes and the winds grow cold. I'd rather be discussing this over a warm meal and a bit of wine, wouldn't you? Chain the witch. Muzzle the wolf."

Petrus approached Quelana warily. The big man was studying her apprehensively, as if she were a spring-loaded trap ready to fire upon him. When he cautiously reached forth to shackle her wrists, Abby stepped between them and took them from him. The man gave them up easy enough, looking relieved at not having to get any closer, and stepped away. Abby looked at them, that same anger burning quietly in her eyes, and sighed. "It's alright," Quelana said quietly and held out her hands. "These men do not frighten me. I have _you_ on my side." That seemed to dissolve just a bit of Abby's frustration. The girl moved forth and locked her wrists together, traced the chain down to her feet, and did the same at her ankles. She was left with just enough slack to shuffle forward. Petrus tossed her a leather muzzle, and Quelana watched in wonder as Abby called to the wolf they'd picked up in the forest, and the great beast allowed her to muzzle it without even a bit of struggle. When it was done, Abby lowered her face to the top of the wolf's head and kissed, and Quelana could hear the thing whimper beneath her.

"You should muzzle the _fire_ bitch," Patches added from behind them; Quelana had forgotten he was even there. "She took over my mind with just her tongue before! Bitch almost got me _killed_!"

Chester moved the crossbow from Solaire to Patches and cocked his head to the side. "Patches, what in the _cursed_ hells are you still doing here? How has someone _not_ killed you yet?"

Patches face turned to the color of spoiled milk. His eyes widened and he put up his hands, one bandaged, one not. "I-I was j-just saying-"

"Kill him," Kirk said with a laugh. "His bald head is too ugly to drag into the Archives. It'll scare off all the children."

"P-_please_!" Patches pleaded, dropping to his knees.

Some of the men behind Petrus laughed and Chester snickered with them. "Run away, hyena, before I put a bolt between your eyes."

"R-run away?" Patches echoed. He glanced back over his shoulder at the path they'd just come from. "It's going to be nighttime soon... I don't know where-"

"Is that our problem?" Chester asked. "Now I told you to _run_, hyena! Go on! _Get_!"

The man let a bolt fly. It bit the dirt right between Patches' knees. The bald man shrieked and tried scrambling away so fast, he tumbled back onto his ass. His injured hand landed beneath him and he cried out in agony, but another bolt thumped into the dirt beside him and he had to leap to his feet to get running. Kirk's booming laughter filled the clearing, and the rest of the men soon joined him. The last of Patches Quelana saw was a brief glimpse of his bald head as it dipped around the spiraling stone staircase that they'd arrived from. She felt no sympathy for the man. He had killed Lautrec. _Or he hasn't_, Quelana reminded herself. _But if the knight lives... alone and injured... he won't live for long. _The thought, she found with some surprise, saddened her. She wouldn't have called the man her 'friend' exactly, but... he was clever, strong, and determined - all qualities she wished she had beside her now.

"Let's go," Petrus commanded, stepping to the side so Solaire, Abby, and herself could move between the small convoy that had come to lead them in.

Abby sighed, glancing once more at Anor Londo before taking Quelana's arm in her own. They walked side-by-side, slowly so Quelana could keep us in her manacles and fetters, and passed beneath the tunnel entrance and into the long hall that would take them to the Archives, armed men all around them. The muzzled wolf trotted forward, and Quelana could swear she heard him whimper again as they moved deeper inside.

Their lives, their mission, and maybe the fate of Lodran itself now rested in this 'Logan's' hands. Quelana could only hope he was as good a man as Solaire claimed.


	15. Chapter 15

He awoke with bolts of pain driving up into his knee, burrowing through his thigh and pelvis, and tearing a hole in his side where the bandage there had grown damp with blood. Lautrec balled his hands into fists and drove them into the cot at his sides, clenching his teeth and sucking cold air til the agony subsided. Slowly, the pain became manageable and his blurred vision came back into focus as his fists unclenched and his arched back lowered to the cot once again. His knee still throbbed, however, and whatever hideous scar lived beneath his bandaged abdomen felt hot and itchy and Lautrec wondered if a sickness had crept into it before whoever had found him had sewn it up. _Fitting, _he thought, _to die from an infected wound left by a man I knew was a disease waiting to strike. _Each time the wound flared in pain, it was a reminder of his mistake, and it was one he would not make again. _Trust no one, _a man older and wiser than himself had once told him. He had trusted Ana and had lost everything but his life. Now his mistake with Patches might cost him _that_ as well.

He had been so disoriented from the harsh awakening of pain and so lost in his own thoughts, he hadn't even noticed he had company in his cell. When the large figure sitting atop a stool in the corner of the room caught in his periphery, though, he made the mistake of snapping up in the cot and his injured leg made him pay for it. He winced and grabbed at the flesh just above the knee, digging his fingers in and waiting out the agony. When it had dimmed, he turned back to the stool, where the blacksmith was watching him with a casual, almost disinterested, look. Lautrec stared at the man, narrowing his eyes cautiously.

Andre was his name. Lautrec had met him in... some other life, but he had never been so close to the man, and the sight of the blacksmith was, to say the least, impressive. The old man had a mame of white and grey hair that wrapped his head and chin and shoulders in an unkempt tangle. Beneath it all, the wrinkled face within housed a pair of dark eyes that-despite the man's very obvious, very _old_ age-still held a younger man's energetic twinkle. His body was a towering foundation of muscle, bare above his leather loincloth and boots, save for the gloves he wore over his large hands. Lautrec had sparred with bigger men than himself, but never one as large as the blacksmith. The old man was running the blade of a longsword against a whetstone, and Lautrec could see the wiry muscles of his triceps and forearms coming alive with every flick of his wrist.

Lautrec waited for the blacksmith to say something now that he was clearly awake, but the old man only watched him with that same casual expression on his face, as if he were waiting for a pot of soup to boil over. Lautrec met the man's gaze and held, but said nothing himself. He wrestled up a bit on the cot, so that his back was against the cold stone wall behind him, and his injured leg stretched before him. The blacksmith continued to watch, the blade running across the whetstone in a rhythmic _shick, shick, shick. _

_ What game is this? _Lautrec wondered. He let his hand fall to his bandaged side and his fingers came away damp with blood. He grimaced and turned on the blacksmith. _It's a power play. He wants me to come begging to him for aid. To dress my wounds. To hear me grovel my thanks for saving my life. To-_

"Whatever you're thinking, knight, know I've killed better men than you with less than this blade," the old man spoke suddenly into the little room, his coarse voice booming and filling every inch of the cell. "So don't get any ideas."

Lautrec frowned. Perhaps the blacksmith _wasn't_ playing any game. "Are you suggesting I'm planning to attack you? Seems like a foolish plan considering you're twice my size and I'm unarmed and wounded."

"I know of you, _Lautrec_ of Carim," the blacksmith said, still running the blade against the stone at his lap. "I know you're a man who will stop at nothing to get what you want."

"A rather harsh judgement to be made so quickly, no?" Lautrec asked. _Ana, _he thought. _He's talking about Ana. The whole of Lordran seems to despise me for that. _"You're alluding to the firekeeper that I was after."

"You killed five of Oswald's men trying to get her," the old man went on. "I met with them five. _Drank_ with them. They weren't easy men to kill."

"All men are easy to kill if you know where to cut," Lautrec told him. "And speaking of which, what _did_ you do with my shotels? You're a blacksmith, I'm sure you can appreciate the fine craftsmanship of the weapons. I intend to get them back before I leave here."

"Who said you're leaving here, knight?"

"Whether I do or whether I don't... I'm taking back those blades."

The blacksmith stopped sharpening the longsword lain across his knee and the lines of his face tightened ever-so-slightly around his wrinkled eyes and mouth. "Watch your tongue, young fellow. It's still in question on whether your life is worth letting you keep or not."

"You went through a whole lot of trouble to save this life," Lautrec pointed out. "Would be a shame to throw it away now, wouldn't it?"

"Wasn't trying to save your life when we came across ya," the blacksmith said. "You just happened to be there. Gods paid ya a favor, I s'pose."

"Then perhaps I'm not _all_ monster," Lautrec said, and when the blacksmith's face darkened again, he went on, "Listen. I came here a long time ago now, to kill a firekeeper. That is true. It's never going to be _un_true. If that is reason enough to condemn me, spare me this conversation and stick my throat with that blade of yours already. If it's _not_, then tell me what you want from me."

The blacksmith raised one of his bear claws of a hand to his bearded chin and scratched. "First thing I want is to know if you're a spy or not."

"A _spy_?"

"Aye. For Logan."

"No."

"No?"

"No, I'm not a spy for Logan," Lautrec clarified. "Now answer a question of mine."

The blacksmith frowned, the indignation clear upon his face. "You're in no position to be making demands, young fellow."

"No demand," Lautrec said. "Only an attempt to gain some mutual ground of trust and amicability with one another so that this process of conversing isn't so arduously painful."

"I'm not as smart as you, knight," the old man said, pointing a finger his way, "but don't think you can confuse me with yer fancy words and yer tricks." Lautrec thought he'd awake the man's anger if he replied immediately, so he waited, and the blacksmith went on. "Ask yer question. But don't expect an answer if I don't care for it."

"Why would Logan send a spy after you?"

The old man's brow lifted, clearly surprised by the question. He stared at Lautrec a moment, turning the longsword over in his lap a half-dozen times as he did. Finally, he said, "Because Logan's a madman whose growing more paranoid as the days go by. Me and... well, me and another fled from the Archives." He narrowed his dark eyes on Lautrec and leaned forward. "And even though I'm not as smart as you are, I know how to kill a man pretty good. If I think you just lied to me and you _are_ Logan's man... I'll bleed you."

"Fair enough," Lautrec said, not shrinking away from the hulking figure of the man. "What's your next question?"

The blacksmith leaned back on his stool, turned his head, and spit to the stone floor beside him. When he looked back on Lautrec, he raised the sword from his lap and pointed the tip his way. "Second question depends on the first. If you speak true... why would you ever leave the Archives?"

"_You_ left them..."

"Answer me."

Lautrec sighed. "I told Sieglinde," he began, noting the way the old man's face darkened upon revealing the woman had told him her name, "I'm not _from_ the Archives. I've never even been there."

"No?" The blacksmith questioned, a jagged and mirthless laugh erupting from his throat. "And how is it you've survived the cold all this time?"

Lautrec shrugged. "Same as any other man, I suppose. You do what you do to get by. Also, I've only come to this... _cold_ world of Lordran a few days past. Before this I was gone... perhaps a very long time... to the Undead Asylum."

"Do you hope to make your lies so outlandish I fool myself into _believing _them?" The blacksmith questioned. "The Asylum sunk into the ocean weeks ago, and the only thing to ever come from there was the Chosen Undead and a very, very, big crow."

"I don't expect you to take my word for this, especially considering you already think me a murderous monster, but this _is_ the truth of it. I have no other story to tell, because that _is_ my story."

The old man squinted. "Aye? Then I s'pose you've been telling anyone you _met_ that little tale?"

"I've only met one other man besides you upon returning to Lordran, but yes. I told the same story."

"Where is Domhnall?"

"It's my turn to ask a question," Lautrec said, and before the blacksmith could yell at him, he went on, "If you squeeze the last bit of useful information I have from me, do you ever intend to set me free from this cell?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"On what kind of man Domhnall says you are if we find him. If yer story matches his. If I think you can accomplish what I want you to accomplish..."

"You have a task for me? Is that it?" Lautrec asked, and suddenly things were starting to clear in his mind. _Of course he kept you alive and locked up, _he thought. _He wants something from you more valuable than simple information._

"We'll see," the blacksmith said, rising from his stool. The grey and white blizzard of hair hung loose around his chest as he did, and his muscular figure was even more imposing as he towered over the cot, longsword clutched in his meaty hand. "Sieglinde," he called over his shoulder.

The tall and square-shouldered woman who'd first come to him in the cell appeared behind the barred door of the room. Her freckled nose pressed against a bar as she leaned forward to fix her hazel eyes upon the smith.

"The map," the old man said, reaching his hand back.

The woman dug into a satchel at her waist and fished out a tattered piece of paper. She stuck her fingers between the bars and lowered the edge of it into the man's hand. He took it, snapped his wrist so the paper straightened, and flicked it down to the cot between Lautrec's legs. Lautrec lifted it, cocking his head to study the messy scrawling etched on its face. It was a hand-drawn map of the Burg. Lautrec lifted a brow and looked to the blacksmith. "What do you want me to do with this?"

"Sieglinde tells me you stayed two nights on with Domhnall," the old man said. "Point out his lodging on that there map."

_This is it, _Lautrec thought, _my last bit of information. What other option do I have, though? I can only hope the man really does intend to send me on some mission. _He found Domhnall's place rather easily. It was the tallest building on the far edge of the map in the Lower Burg. He pointed it out and extended the paper for the blacksmith to see.

"Aye?" The old man growled. "That's a far journey, young fellow." He lifted his face to Lautrec and furrowed his brow. "I should inform you that both Sieglinde and myself are intending to go find him. That leaves you here alone and locked up. If we should fall... you'll never see the outside of this cell."

"And what if I _am_ telling the truth, but you should fall anyway?" Lautrec asked, though he thought already knew the answer.

The blacksmith grinned. "If I were you, knight, I'd pray that doesn't happen." He reached beneath the stool and raised two brass pots from beneath. He set them on the cot beside Lautrec's injured leg. "This one here has fresh water in it. This one is for your waste. A pot fer drinkin' and a pot fer pissin'. I wouldn't confuse the two."

"No," Lautrec agreed, eyeing the pot with water greedily. He hadn't had a drink in quite some time.

"Here," the blacksmith said, tossing a half-eaten loaf of bread onto the bedding beside the pots. "It's a bit moldy, but you can eat around it. We ain't wasting the _good _supplies on you till we know what kind of man you are. The spot you pointed out is at least a day away. Burg's too dangerous at night, so we'll have to stay there... if you tell it true and Domhnall _is_ there."

"He'll be there," Lautrec said, though the realization that the man and Benjamin might've _left_ dawned upon him. If the blacksmith and the tall woman came upon an empty home... they'd likely come back and cut his throat while he slept.

"I hope he is, young fellow," the blacksmith said with a nod of his head. He pointed at the cell door and Sieglinde stuck a key inside and opened it. "I don't know what business you and that poor firekeeper had with each other, but if Domhnall says yer decent... I'll have work for you when yer leg heals up a bit more. Consider it payment for saving yer life."

"Andre..." Sieglinde said softly and her face wrinkled with a look of sadness.

The blacksmith looked from her back to Lautrec. "Ah, yes. I, er... the lady wants to know if you were telling the truth about Siegmeyer yesterday. Was he really absent among Solaire and his men on the bridge?"

"Yes," Lautrec said, lifting the stale bread and tearing a chunk of mold away to bite into it. "And Solaire himself was in ropes. I don't know if that means anything to you."

Sieglinde sucked a breath of air in awkwardly, as if she'd forgotten how, and quickly disappeared from the doorway.

"_Sieg_!" Andre called to her. When she did not reply, he frowned, went to the door, and stepped outside the cell before turning back to Lautrec once more. "If I were you, I'd ask the Gods to keep watch over us on our travels."

"If I were _you_," Lautrec told him. "So would I."

The cell door slammed shut, the lock clicked into place, and the blacksmith vanished around the edge of the wall. Lautrec was alone once again, but at least he had something to eat and drink as well as something to relieve himself into, which he did immediately.

**-o-o-o-**

No natural light could enter the cell up high in the Parish church's top floor, and the torch glowing outside in the hall had died in its sconce a few hours after the blacksmith and his woman had departed, and so Lautrec had no idea of how much time had passed after he'd dozed off. He awoke to blackness, his hands fumbling around on the floor beside his bedding for the pot of water. He found it and drank, the cool water within a soothing welcome on his hoarse throat. His leg still throbbed, but the pain was getting better, and he figured before long he'd be able to walk. That was a good thing. Blood still cake his bandaged side, but it was dry and hard, and he hoped that meant the wound beneath had finally stopped leaking. He laid there for awhile, taking the occasional sip of water as his thoughts turned to Quelana and Abby and what had become of them. _Dead, most likely, _he thought. _Those men didn't look seem the prisoner-taking type. If they were lucky, they died quickly. If not... _He didn't want to think of the other option. The two were no friends of his, but-despite what most of Lordran seemed to think-he was no monster, and did not wish ill on either of them. He wondered if somehow they still yet lived on, what had become of them.

He drifted to sleep again with those thoughts.

**-o-o-o-**

When next he woke, there was sound outside the cell door, but the blackness was still present, and he could see nothing. The sound of feet scraping stone came, and this time-fully awake-he was sure he'd heard it. Lautrec lifted his head, thankful that his leg hadn't screamed at him for the sudden movement, and cocked his head to listen. Faintly but distinctly, the sound of breathing drifted from just outside the room. Lautrec considered calling out, but thought better of it. If whomever was out there was not Andre or Sieglinde, he did not want his presence to be known, and unless they had cat's eyes nestled in their skull, they could not get a look at him without allowing a look at themselves. He stilled his breath and listened more intently. There was _two_ people breathing at least, but now it seemed as if they were trying to remain quiet as well. _They could stick a crossbow through the bars, _Lautrec thought bitterly, _or a spell. _He closed his eyes and pulled up a layout of the room. It was easy enough: he had spent a _lot_ of time here before he'd set out on this whole mad adventure. The cell door had an angle on almost every inch of the room, save for the corner opposite his cot. _Can you walk? _Lautrec questioned, grabbing at his knee to see how much pain flared there. When only a mild stab answered him, he slowly swung his legs off the cot and pressed his feet to the floor. When he lowered to it, the pressure on his leg almost collapsed him, but he got his hands beneath him in time and crawled off the cot.

Whispers came from just outside the door. Lautrec knew he was making too much noise, but there was nothing that could be done about it. He pulled himself into the corner of the cell and pressed his back to the wall. He waited in the black silence, but all noises had ceased from outside the door. _If they're intent on killing me, there are ways past a locked door, _he thought. _But I will at least glimpse my killer's face. I can at least do that. _He reached for the foot of his uninjured leg and pulled the golden boot from it. It came off easy enough, and then he was crawling forth on his belly towards the door, careful to keep any pressure off of his wounded side. When he was in striking distance, he lifted the boot high and drove it down at the stone wall with as much strength as he could muster.

The metal clashed with the stone and a shower of sparks rained from the impact. In the brief light he saw them: two dirty faces of a boy and a girl, no older than seven or eight. They vanished into the darkness as quick as they had come, and then he heard their little feet shuffling away in a panic, the girl shrieking, the boy hushing her with angry whispers. _Children? _Lautrec thought, resting up against the wall as a wash of relief came over him. _Now that is interesting..._

**-o-o-o-**

It was after two more naps that, finally, torchlight filled the hall outside his cell once more. Lautrec had no idea how much time had passed, but he felt it had to have been enough for a man and woman to get to the Lower Burg and back. When he heard the blacksmith's gruff voice mutter something, he sighed relief. _Now as long as Domhnall was there... and _alive...

Andre's massive figure appeared in the doorway, the torch he carried sending an even more massive figure of a shadow along the wall beside him. He squinted into the cell and growled, "Still alive in there, knight?"

"I am," Lautrec answered.

Andre was quiet for a moment as he nodded his head. "Yer story checks out."

"That's good," Lautrec said. "Now arm yourself."

"_Arm_ myself?" The blacksmith snapped. "You lookin' for a fight now, young fellow?"

"You've got intruders," Lautrec told him. "Take up arms and clear the church."

He saw the old man's face darken considerably beside the torch, the orange glow accentuating every aged wrinkle on his brow. "How many?"

"I only saw two children," Lautrec said. "But who knows how many men they could be traveling with."

Andre's posture loosened and the big man released a breath of relief. "Thank the Gods." He swiped at his brow and looked in on Lautrec. "The kids... they're with us. S'pose I should've locked _them_ up too, little rascals. I told 'em to stay put."

Lautrec frowned. "Why would you travel with children?"

Andre made a groaning noise not dissimilar to the sound a dog makes when its tired. He dug into the pocket of his loin cloth and fetched out a key. "Domhnall lives. A young man calls himself 'Benjamin' too. They both confirmed yer mad story... as unbelievable as it it. Dom... he vows for your character as well. S'pose that means I'll be letting you out. I _also_ s'pose that means I have a few things to fill you in on."

Lautrec nodded; this close to freedom, he had no intention of botching it with his tongue.

Andre fixed him with a shrewd look. "Don't mean I won't have my eye on ya. Understood?"

Again, Lautrec only nodded.

The blacksmith plugged the keyhole with the key and the door swung open. "Sieg!" He called over his shoulder. "Come help me with the knight. His leg likely ain't good enough to walk on yet."

"I can walk."

Andre raised his brow, looking Lautrec over for a moment before shouting, "Nevermind." He nodded and pointed to his feet. "We're down on the first floor. It's going to be a hell of a descent on that leg of yours. Don't trip and break yer neck. Yer no good to me dead."

"I'll manage," Lautrec insisted, and the blacksmith nodded and left without another word.

Lautrec clambered to his feet using the wall beside him as support and shuffled around the edge of the room to the door, his leg throbbing but not _screaming. _He winced, took hold of the bars, and stepped outside, and for the second time, Lautrec had 'escaped' the Parish cell.

The descent was as the blacksmith warned: hell. Each time he had to set the foot of his bad leg down, a rod of pain ran from his heel to his hip, but by the time he'd reached the second floor of the Parish, his steps were coming quicker and less painful. By the time he was halfway to the ground level, he was almost moving at a normal pace.

The church was, not unexpectedly, the same as when he left it the first time all those days ago. Rows of shattered and warped pews greeted him nestled between the chipped and crumbling stone pillars that led up to the high ceiling, holes and rotted wooden planks poking out of every corner of it. The main hall was spacy, though, and a welcome change from the tight confines of the cell. He hobbled forth, the wall at his side to aid him, and stepped around to the alter at the church's head. Andre and Sieglinde were there, garnished in their traveling cloaks and leathers, and beside them Domhnall and Benjamin.

Ben turned to face him and for a moment he hardly recognized the boy he'd left behind a few days earlier. A dark and coarse beard had grown wild on the boy's face, and it almost made him look like a man. His eyes widened only slightly upon seeing Lautrec, then he swallowed, composed himself, and bowed. "Good to see you alive."

Domhnall turned to face him as well now, and a wide smile spread across the merchant's freckled face. "Aye siwmae," he greeted with a nod. "Seems our paths have crossed sooner than either of us had hoped, hm?" He laughed.

Lautrec winced as he forced his bad leg up the shallow climb to the alter. Domhnall stook his hand out, and the man's good-natured smile seemed to force Lautrec's hand to find it and shake. When Lautrec turned to Ben, he saw that familiar look of hurt on the kid's face. The boy was still bitter about being left. Lautrec didn't really have any words for the kid, so he simply clapped him on the shoulder and turned to face Andre. "Everything I've told you has been a truth," he said, leaning beside a stone pillar to alleviate some pressure on his leg. "Now I expect the same courtesy."

Andre shared a look with Sieglinde, who gave a quiet nod of her head. The big blacksmith made his dog-noise again and set his hand upon a wooden bookshelf leaned up beside the wall. "We already told Dom and the boy... we didn't exactly leave Logan on good terms. _Fled_, I s'pose is a better word for what we did. Some... disturbing information came to light." He shoved on the bookshelf and it's bottom sliding along the floor filled the church's interior. "There are those who would call us kidnappers fer what we did, but we _ain't_ no kidnappers. We saved them. Saved them all."

Lautrec, utterly perplexed, leaned forward to see what secrets the bookshelf held behind it. A hidden room was nestled into a cracked section of wall. Inside it, dimly aglow beneath torchlight, the face of a dozen little children, alert and wary, peered out at him. Some were dressed only in rags, their feet bare, and others didn't even _have_ rags to cover their bodies; they nestled beneath heavy blankets. He spotted the two that had spied in on him in the cell, and saw all the children's faces were just as gaunt and dirty as theirs.

Lautrec spun on Andre, his face contorted with confusion. "What is this? You steal _children?_"

"We didn't _steal_ them," Sieglinde piped up, stepping forth and opening her arms to her sides. "They were _disappearing_ at the Archives! Little Garth told us that he saw his brother get taken away in the night by one of Logan's golems! That... that _monster_ is doing something with them!"

Lautrec felt his stomach lurch. "I don't... understand."

"Logan is a madman," Andre said. "And anyone in his presence is at risk of his madness. Dom... I'm so sorry we didn't listen to you earlier."

The merchant rested his hand on Andre's shoulder and smiled. "It wasn't your fault, Andre. You saved who you could. That's what matters."

"So what then?" Lautrec said, his head spinning with the weight of this new information. "That's what you want me to do? That's your 'mission' for me? You expect me to be able to march up to the Archives and rescue the remaining children right out from under Logan's nose? What makes you think I'm capable of such a thing?"

The blacksmith shook his head, his face dark and grim. "No. That ain't what we want. Yer no sneak, young man. Yer a knight. We want you to do what a knight does best..." He stepped forth and laid a meaty hand on Lautrec's shoulder.

"We want you to kill Logan."


	16. Chapter 16

The world that Abby had come to clutched in the talons of the mighty crow at the Firelink Shrine had been one of decay and decadence, of crumbling buildings and tarnished stone walkways, of beasts and demons, and above all: of _cold_; a blistering, numbing, cold that encompassed and encapsulated every bit of Lordran, animate or inanimate. And so she had expected the same from the 'Duke's Archives' that Domhnall and the others had spoken of along her travels, but upon entering its main hall she found herself pleasantly and unexpectedly surprised. If the ruin that had stolen upon the rest of Lordran had laid siege here as well, the Archives were blissfully unaware of it. Stepping out from the long, arched, tunnel that wound its way into the main hall of the castle, Abby's face came alight as her eyes fell to the colorful banners that streamed from the lofty, stained glass, windows above, noting they were neither ripped nor shredded in not one stitch along their intricate fabrics. Polished bronze candelabras protruded from the walls at her side, hung beneath massive and beautiful paintings portraying distant landscapes and faraway vistas. Their flames were warm and bathed the entire hall in a soft, orange, light. Further on, an exotic velvet carpet of deep crimson and silver trim pooled on the floor beneath an enormous chandelier above; its rim layered with crystals and gems that twinkled and shone with every twist of its core. Tables and chairs, bookshelves and cupboards, were plentiful around the room's perimeter, and _none_ of them were broken or warped or on the verge of collapse.

At the edges of the walls, and perhaps more wonderful than anything else, _people_ were gathered. Not hollows nor demons nor beasts nor creatures. _Humans_ like herself. Abby clutched her hands to her heart and looked upon them, drinking in the hopeful sight. The men and women there did not pay her much attention. Some were talking amongst each other, others were running blades on whetstones. A group of women at the rear of the hall were lined before a long table, kneading dough. A few men at the opposite wall were taking inventory of crossbow bolts and arrows. Abby could not remove the smile from her face. _They're living, _she thought, her heart soaring. _They're just... living. _Just then, a scatter of children came rushing through one of the halls many side paths, laughing and swatting at each other before disappearing around another. _It's like back home at Vinheim, _she realized. _This is the world I need to see. I know now what I fight for. _She turned to Quelana beside her and broadened her smile. "Isn't it wonderful?"

Quelana, shackled hand and foot at the men's requests, looked odd in such a lively environment; her face pale and littered with stressful lines of worry and uncertainty. She stepped closer to Abby, shying away from the pack of children as they rushed through the hall again, and clutched tightly to Abby's arm. _What a fool I am, _Abby realized with a sadness. _This isn't her world. It's mine. _Still, Quelana forced herself to return the smile and nodded.. "Yes, Abby. It's... very nice."

"They won't hurt you," Abby assured her. "Some of my kind have a terribleness growing in their hearts, certainly, but many don't. Many are like Solaire and I."

"Oh, I know," Quelana said, still casting her wary glances around the room. "I've met enough humans in my day to know what you say is true. I've just... never seen so many of you in one place. It is... overwhelming."

"There are many more, my lady," Solaire cut in, stepping beside them. Abby was relieved to see him smiling as well. "_This_ is why I tell you Logan is a good man. Look at what he has provided for the men and women of Lordran! Shelter and warmth and food and solace from... from the wickedness out _there_," he finished, pointing back the way they'd come.

"It's incredible," Abby said, lifting her head to stare up at the high, domed, ceiling above. "How is this castle in such good condition?"

"Maintenance, my lady," Solaire said. "The world out there has been abandoned, forgotten, but the world in here still lives on. And we take care of it."

Abby prodded the carpeting with the toe of her boot, watching as the frilly edge lifted and fell; she'd half been expecting it to be an illusion. A man with a dirty fall of brown hair and a patch covering one of his eyes fixed her with a strange look, bumped his friend's shoulder, and whispered something. Abby turned from them back to Solaire. "Do these men know who we are? Why we've come?"

"Not yet," Chester interrupted, stepping between the two of them. The man's top hat was slightly askew on his brow, and his dark eyes could be seen peering out from the jester's mask he wore over his face. "But this is as far as the rest of you go," he said to Solaire, sweeping his eyes over Quelana and the wolf at Abby's feet as well. "Logan only wants the girl."

Solaire's face reddened. "I intend to speak with Logan myself. It was _my _command over you treacherous lot that set out from this castle to retrieve our guests."

"I've spoken to Logan," the man with the bowl-shaped haircut, Petrus, interjected. "I've relayed him the story that Chester told us of your travels."

Solaire spun on the masked man, his brow furrowed, his fists clenched. "What _lies_ have you spread!?"

Chester shrugged. "Twas _you_ who led us out of these walls, sun warrior, that much is true, but it was _me_ who returned to them first. I told no lies. I wouldn't _dare_ to consider such a thing. Logan is my good friend, and _all_ of our leader - both in mind and spirit. I gave him my report. What he made of it is his own business."

Solaire was glowering, looking like a pot of boiling water ready to burst. He took a step towards Chester, but the knight of thorns, Kirk, was there in an instant. He lifted his barbed sword up to Solaire's chin and grinned. "Be a real shame for you to throw your life away after coming so far, knight, wouldn't it?"

The wolf at her heels began growling into its muzzle. Abby lowered to a knee and stroked its fur as she lifted her eyes to the knight. "It's alright, Solaire. I am not afraid of this Logan. It's up to _you_, however, to watch over Quelana and our furry friend here," she said, scratching the wolf behind the ear until the beast calmed. She held her palm to its neck and felt her hand grow warm. The wolf's eyes grew heavy and the beast lowered itself to the carpeting to curl into a ball.

"My lady, it is not that I worry about leaving you with Logan alone," Solaire explained. "It is simply the fact that he would _request_ such strange terms in the first place that raises my suspicions."

"I tire of this," Chester said, shouldering past Solaire and offering his hand to Abby. "Come, girl. I'm to take you to him. I won't bite... much." He snickered beneath his mask.

Abby looked at the man's gloved hand, took a breath, and laid her own within it. He gripped her delicately and bowed.

"If any harm should befall her in your presence..." Solaire growled.

"Save your threats, knight," Kirk said, stepping to the side so Solaire's path was blocked from Abby and Chester. "In case you haven't noticed, you ain't Logan's lapdog no more," he said, nodding to Petrus behind them. "_He_ is. That means if you step out of line... well, I think you know the rest," the tall man in the dark armor said, a baleful menace to his voice. He tapped his barbed sword off his armored thigh.

"Don't think the good men and women of this castle won't find out about what _you_ did, knight of thorns," Solaire told the man. "Poor Siegmeyer..."

"Abby," Quelana whispered at her side, and Abby turned to see the witch looking more anxious then ever. Quelana reached out to her, but the shackles ran out of slack before she could, snapping her hands back abruptly.

Abby stepped forward and took both of Quelana's hands in her own, rubbing her fingers into the witch's palms. "Solaire will protect you until I return."

"I don't worry for me," Quelana said quietly. "I worry for _you_."

"Come, girl," Chester repeated. "My patience wears thin."

"Logan won't harm her," Solaire told Quelana. "You have my word, my lady."

Quelana sighed, held her emerald eyes on Abby for a moment, and released her hands. Abby stroked her hair, nodded, and turned to find Chester with his elbow extended. She looked from his arm to his mask. The man bowed his head towards his elbow and she had no other choice but to take it in her own. They walked from the main hall like that, arm-in-arm, the way the boys used to walk the girls onto the ballroom floor at Vinheim's Dragon School, and Abby took one last glance at her companions before they disappeared around a corner. Solaire had moved beside Quelana, the wolf between the two of them. The knight bowed, the wolf slept, and Quelana stared on, a look of deep worry wrinkling her brow. Then Chester led her around the corner and they were gone.

The man in the top hat walked her up a short flight of stairs, Abby gawking at the decorated wooden banners and polished oak armoires that flanked the smaller room, and onto a wide, wooden, platform, trimmed with rows of ornate, carved, ivory that acted as a railing to keep them within. She was just getting ready to ask what the strange platform was when it came to life, the sudden lift of its elevator pulley-system nearly causing her to lose her footing til Chester tightened his arm around hers and stilled her. Her balance restored, she lifted her head and watched as row after row of stone walls descended around them as the lift carried them upwards. After a few seconds, and no end in sight, she turned to Chester and asked, "How high up is this castle?"

The masked man turned on her, his eyes flicking her way between the eye slits. "High," he answered and said no more.

After a long climb, the lift finally slowed to a halt in a encased, stone, chamber. An identical room like the one below awaited them outside the platform's rail, but when they passed through it, they came upon an enormous hall. "Oh my," Abby exclaimed, her brow lifting in delight. It was a library, not unlike the one they had at school, but much, much, larger. Every inch of every wall was lined with bookshelves, and every shelf was brimming with books; leather-bound and an assortment of colors: blue, red, grey, black. When she was younger, and before all her time was taken up by her failed training at sorceries and miracles, she would have been in blissful elation to come upon such a wealth of treasure. "There's so many..." she whispered as Chester walked her beneath a tunnel and out into yet _another _section of the library. She leaned out over the railing to see floors both above and below them. "When I save Lordran... there will be enough books for every hand of every boy and every girl in Lordran to hold."

Chester turned to her, cocking his head sideways. "You're a strange little thing, aren't you?"

"Why do you say that?" Abby asked. "Haven't you ever read a book? There are few things as wonderful as a good story."

Chester took a sudden turn, pulling her out of the library and out onto the ledge of a balcony that wrapped the castle's outer walls. Abby looked down, but night had set in, and only darkness could be seen. The air was chilly out here, though, and snow caked the balcony's floor so she was careful to clutch to the man's arm to keep her footing. "If it were up to me," Chester said, relentless in his brisk walking pace. "We'd have ourselves a mighty good fire with all those books."

Abby frowned. "That's a terrible thing to say."

He shrugged. "Call my crazy, but Id rather be warm then well-read."

"Why do you wear a mask?" Abby asked, though she knew the question was rather tangential. She had been looking at it, and the question simply came to her.

Chester snickered. "We all wear a mask, girl. I just make mine more easily visible," he said, then after a moment's silence, "And you'd better think about what mask you wear with Logan. The man has a shrewd eye. It won't be easy to lie to him."

"Why would I lie?" Abby asked. "I have nothing to hide."

"What a wonderfully honest little life you must live," Chester said, a sardonic sting to his words. "Maybe you could teach the rest of us how to be so wonderful if you decide to stay."

"I won't be staying," Abby answered immediately. "And you're making fun of me. I don't appreciate it."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want to upset the 'savior of Lordran', would I?"

"I told you stop it. I _am _going to save Lordran. I won't stop until I do."

He halted so abruptly, she nearly slipped in the snow. When she opened her mouth to scold him for as much, he pressed her against the cold stone wall of the castle and held her there with his arm against her chest. "What are you doing!?" She snapped.

Chester reached his hand beneath the chin of his mask and peeled it away. From the torchlight a bit further along the path and the moon's pale glow in the sky above, she had enough light to glimpse the man's face. It was comely; almost queerly so. His long hair fell in soft ringlets around it, like hers once did, and his features were sharp, lips thin, and eyes dark and mysterious. His handsomeness was comparable to Lautrec's, but where Lautrec had the hard features of a man, Chester had the softer features of a feminine face. His dark eyes bore into her as he spoke, "I can be good to you girl. If Logan does convince you to stay, that is. There are men here that will seek to harm you or use you, but I would protect you. I would keep your bed warm at night, and my crossbow would watch over you in the day. Your hair is all chopped up like a boy's, but you're a very pretty girl, and you have a sweetness to you that I haven't seen in a long time. I like sweet things."

Abby swallowed. "Please unhand me," she stammered, squirming uncomfortably beneath his arm.

He smiled, making his comely face even more so. "It's something to think about. Surely you've thought of men before?" He asked, cocking his head to the side and examining her face. "You've still got your maidenhood, don't you?"

"_Please _release me," Abby insisted. "You're frightening me."

He did, but the disappointment was evident on his face before it vanished beneath his mask again. "There may come a day when you long for a man like me at your side. Perhaps I'll still be there when you do..."

Abby took a breath to still her racing heart. She wrapped her arms around her torso to shield the cold winds dusting the balcony and said no more, choosing instead to simply wait for the man to continue walking. He snickered, shook his head, and headed back the way they'd come from. "Hey!" She called. "What are you doing?"

"He wants you alone," Chester said casually over his shoulder as he sauntered away. "The prison door's a bit further on. Good luck, girl. Keep my offer in mind."

"Prison?" She echoed, turning to the balcony path where two sconces held torches flanking an indentation in the castle wall. "His chambers are in a prison?"

But by then, Chester was already gone.

The doors, for as large and imposing as they were, came apart easily enough. They creaked on their hinges, and Abby noted that the noise did not echo into the chamber beyond, it sounded flat and odd, as if she were opening a portal to another world. When she stepped through the doors, the tower within may as _well_ have been another world. It was the most massive interior she'd ever seen. The walls were rounded, like a giant cylinder stuck into the earth, and when she stepped hesitantly to a ladder at her feet and peered down, the drop to the ground level below was so maddeningly steep, she nearly collapsed. Her hand found the stone barrier, though, and she took a moment to catch her breath and await her spinning head to return to normal. _Any now I must climb down this_, she thought bitterly. _What kind of man would make such a place his _home_? _

She cleared her mind, gathered her courage, and lowered to her knees to swing her legs out and plant her feet on the upper rungs of the ladder. She found footing and wormed backwards until her hands caught the ladder as well. _Steady_, she reminded herself as she took the first, shaky, step downwards. _Like Quelana instructed me with pyromancy. Focus on the movement, not the result. _She descended further and the door she'd come from disappeared above her eyeline, only the ladder and the distant wall behind it visible now. She had managed three more steps before her boot, the sole still caked with snow from the balcony, slipped off the rung. Abby yelped, but when she moved to regain her footing, her _other_ boot slipped with it. All her weight crashed downwards, and if her hands hadn't been locked around the ladder's sides, she would have crashed to her demise right there. Despite her panic, a thought came to her mind that made a queer laughter spill from her mouth. _A fitting end for the __Chosen Undead who's to save Lordran. Death by ladder. _Her laughter did not echo, and the strangeness of that lack of sound pulled her back to reality. She pressed her body to the ladder and stilled her kicking legs long enough to plant her boots back on the rungs before them.

Abby took a deep breath and squeezed her eyelids shut. Thinking ahead, she bit her lip and worked the toe of one boot atop the heel of the other and wrestled it loose until she could kick it free from her foot. She repeated the process on the other boot until that one as well was sailing away from the ladder as well. Barefoot, she felt much more comfortable descending the ladder, and after a few slip-free steps down the rungs, she began to move at a reasonable pace.

Her feet pressed to the cold stone floor beneath the ladder and Abby sighed, the burden and tension of the climb slipping from her shoulders like the removal of a heavy cloak. She released the ladder, noting how white her knuckles had grown around it, and looked for her boots, but they were nowhere to be found. _Oh no, _she realized, stepping to the edge of the platform she was on. _I kicked my boots at him. That's not a good way to make a first impression. _She peered over the raised barrier, but the dizzying spiral that awaited her made her immediately pull her head back. There was nothing left to do, she supposed, but walk. So she walked.

A great set of stone stairs wrapped the curved walls of the tower, and Abby moved carefully down them, watching her footing so as to not misstep on a jagged edge of stone and cut her feet. Beside her, she was amazed to see even _more_ bookshelves were set into the walls, occasionally broken up by a small prison cell, though none housed any prisoners. As she climbed further and further down, peculiar sounds began booming from the lower level, again lacking any sort of echo off the tower's cylindrical wall. Abby felt she had worked up enough courage to steal a glance over the edge again, and so she did. Below, she could see she was rapidly approaching the ground level, and nearly stopped dead when she saw what awaited her.

_Golems_, she realized, eyeing the hulking blue monstrosities that littered the bottom of the prison. _It is as Domhnall said. He lives with _golems! The large creatures were lumbering around in an unorganized way. Abby counted nine of them in total. Their enormous feet thundered into the ground upon every step, and the torchlight that kept the tower from darkness glowed off their peculiar metallic skin in strange ways, turning them orange one moment, blue the next, and a mix of _both_ the next. Some carried what looked like large wooden wheels between their arms, others held great iron poles and notched sheets of metal. They were all working in their own way around the central piece of the prison: a towering assemblage of shafts and wheels and metals and woods. _A machine?_ Abby wondered. _They are assembling some great machine. _She saw, however, that even the golems themselves were unsure of how to piece the thing together. She watched as one tried sticking an iron pole between two wooden cogs, but it didn't fit and the creature grumbled and moved around to the other side to try sticking it elsewhere.

Abby found the sight bizarre and disconcerting, but both Domhnall and Solaire had previously mentioned that the golems were completely in Logan's control, so she walked on, and before she knew it, the spiraling staircase had come to its end, and Abby's feet fell upon the ground level. She could feel the golem's footfalls shaking the stone tiles beneath her as she stepped gingerly around an enormous pillar to stand amongst them.

"Hello?" Her voice called into the chamber so softly and timidly, she would have doubted anyone could _possibly _have heard it, but all at once, all nine of the golems stopped dead in their tracks and turned their eyeless headed in her direction. _Run_, a voice shouted in her head, but she made her feet stay planted.

"Abby...?" A deep voice called from the back of the tower, where a stack of books and papers were mounted high atop a wooden table.

Abby found it strange that someone she'd never met was already calling her by her name, but she resisted her trepidation and called back to it," Yes."

He appeared, lumbering around the stack of papers on his desk almost as clumsily as the golems, and nearly tripped over a spill of parchments and ledgers. He caught himself on the edge of the desk, lowered his head, and a high-pitched laughter rumbled from beneath his enormous hat. He muttered something to himself, but the only word Abby could make out was "Time". _This is their leader? _She wondered. She'd been expecting... well, something _else_. The man before her was garnished not in lavish, elegant, robes, but a dingy, dirty, cloak that might have been fit for a beggar back home at Vinheim. His hat was certainly as big as Domhnall had described it to her, but even _that_ looked old and haggard and worn down around the edges. When he stilled his laughter and lifted his head to continue his approach, she could see the wrinkled, leathery, surface of his face was cracked with a smile beneath the brim of his hat; a tangle of silvery, dry, hair falling around his brow that might have once been blond, but was now quickly growing to grey. Closer he grew still, and Abby saw his nose was a big, crooked, thing that dominated his face. He lifted it to her and smiled, and somehow that smile returned twenty years youth to his age and his eyes took on an exuberant sparkle. "Ah," he swooned, sticking his hand out. "As beautiful as sunshine. You're mere presence has brightened my day, sweet girl," he said, and when Abby took his hand to shake, he lowered his mouth to it and kissed.

"T-thank you. You are... very kind, sir," Abby replied, unsure of how to respond. Logan stood straight once more and set his eyes upon her, staring in silence for a long time til Abby grew uncomfortable and said, "I may have accidentally tossed my boots down here."

"Oh?" He questioned, looking from her face to her feet and sounding that queer laughter from his mouth once more. He lifted his head to the ceiling and stroked at his chin. "So you did."

Abby watched him, nonplussed, and forced herself to continue. "Um, should I look for-"

"Would you like a drink?" He asked, cutting her off.

"A... drink?"

"Yes, yes, yes," Logan said, clasping his hands together. Apparently he'd taken her confused words as some sort of acceptance. "Come, come. This way. Right over here."

He turned and lumbered back towards his desk, and Abby had no choice but to follow, lest she be left in the golems' company alone. The man disappeared behind a stack of books that had been sloppily tossed in a heap on the floor and Abby walked before his desk, clearing a bundle of scrolls from a chair there and seating herself. She noted the extraordinary amount of candles the man had left burning both atop the desk and all around it, and found it a near miracle that he hadn't caught fire to the whole thing yet. _Or perhaps he already has, _she thought, folding her hands on her lap and waiting for his return.

When he came back, a skin of wine was in his hand, two bronze chalices in the other, and he moved to the big chair behind his desk and seated himself. His robed arm came up and swatted a clearing from the desk's top, books and scrolls flung carelessly to the floor, and set the chalices down between them. He looked at her and smiled a toothy smile before twisting the wineskin loose and filling the cups. He pushed one to her and took the other for himself. "To your journey," he saluted, raising his cup. "I've heard its been quite the endeavor making it here."

"Yes," she said, lifting the cup to peer at the dark, crimson, contents within. "I've never really had wine before..."

"Never _really_ had it, or never _had_ it. There is a bit of a difference there, Abby, isn't there?"

"I've never drank wine," she said, clarifying.

"Ah, until now," he said with a smile. "It's an incredible thing to watch a person's first foray into something new, to watch a mind work as its doused with a fresh coat of wonder and curiosity. A plunge into unexplored territory that can hold both all the world's wonders as well as all of its agony and despair. To which path will the wine lead you one, Abby? Drink and let us see." He lifted his cup to his lips and nodded, urging her to do the same.

She rested the cup's brim on her bottom lip and, after a moment's hesitation, poured some of the stuff into her mouth and swallowed. Her face scrunched up; it was bitter and dry and she wondered how men could ever spend so many hours drinking away at such a thing. She set the cup back to the desk and shook her head. "It's... not for me."

Logan hadn't drank. His cup was still resting on his lips. He took it away and stared at her, and somehow it looked as if his whole _face_ had changed. The smile was gone from his mouth, and his eyes bore into her with such intensity, she felt the urge to run again stir in her stomach. "You know," he said, his voice quiet and somber, "the last guest I had down here had a drink, too. I told her it was wine, but do you know what it really was? _Poison_."

Abby's whole body tensed. The hand holding her cup began to shake. She looked from it up to Logan and her eyes grew wide. Her stomach lurched. Her skin felt hot, itchy: like it wanted to crawl away from her bones. _You should've ran, _that voice yelled at her again. _You've could've lived._

Logan's smile returned. "But that was the last guest. I only gave you wine, Abby. Do you think me a monster?"

Her heart was still thundering so loud in her chest, his words sounded distant. She forced herself to take a breath and steady her shaking hand. "That was a cruel thing to do..." she managed to croak from her dry throat.

"Yes, unfortunately, it was," Logan admitted. "I apologize. Sometimes these cruel tricks us humans play are the only way to pry into each other's minds though, you see? Now look at the information we have mined from a sip of wine and a few simple words. We know you value your life, that you are far too trusting, and that, of course, you think _I_ am a man capable of casual, cold-blooded, murder. All of that from a little cruel trick that lasted not but ten seconds and was done with - no _true_ harm befell either of us."

"You could've _asked_ me those things," Abby said, and felt tears ready to surface beneath her eyes. _No_, she demanded of herself. _You will not cry before this man so easily. _She took a breath and composed herself.

"I could have," Logan admitted, bringing his long fingers together before him on his desk, "but, again, humans have a way of... _manipulating _each other. Even the sweetest ones, like you, do it. We're liars, you see, and sometimes the truths have to be _taken_ from us instead of offered. Do you understand?"

"No!" Abby said, her voice raising. "I wouldn't have _lied_ to you!"

Logan smiled. "You're a sweet thing. Too trusting, though. You saw an old man with a big smile and a clumsy step and you put your life in his hands not one minute after meeting him. Do you know what that says about you, sweet Abby?"

She only glared at him.

"You aren't _ready_ to go venturing out into the world on some grandiose quest of salvation."

"Is that why you did that?" Abby asked. "Because Chester told you what I'm doing?"

"He told me what you might yet do, yes," Logan admitted. "And I would like to talk you out of it. I won't hide my intentions."

She could still recall the forest dream. It had been so clear, so _vivid_, that she was nearly convinced it hadn't been a dream at all, but some prophetic glimpse of the future, of an army of hollowed soldiers and great beasts at her command, keeping vigil over her as she trekked across the hazards of Lordran, filling the Lordvessel with the souls of those who would see the world to darkness, marching on the Kiln of the First Flame, and reigniting the fires that would spark the world back to life. When she narrowed her eyes on Logan once again, she was filled with a confidence she hadn't had since entering the prison. "I will not change my course," she told him. "It is my destiny to save Lordran. I won't turn away from it."

"A noble quest, for sure," Logan admitted. "But one based around a deception far crueler than the little one I just pulled."

"There is no deception," Abby told him. "I _will_ save Lordran."

"Will you save it because you _choose_ to?" Logan questioned. "Because if your simply acting out of some predetermined fate of yours, you're not a hero at all, are you? Just a plaything to be used and discarded when your task is complete."

"Of course I'm choosing to," Abby said. "I'm choosing right now not to let _you_ talk me out of it."

"You _think_ you're making a choice."

"I _am_," she insisted.

Logan stared at her then, his dark eyes narrowed above his beak of a nose. He tapped his slender fingers together on his desk and a smile crept up his thin lips. "Ah, I've found your boots," he said, bent below his desk, and came up with them dangling from his hand. He plopped them on the desk between them.

_Another game,_ Abby thought angrily. She reached out for them, but Logan pulled them away at the last moment. "Why-"

"I'll play you for them," he told her. "After all, you _did_ throw them down here. In a way they belong to me. But I'm a fair man. A game. If you win, the boots are yours. If you _lose_... perhaps you will listen to what I have to say?"

"I don't want to play another game!" Abby pleaded, reaching for her boots again only to have them plucked away.

Logan laughed and set them beside him on a stack of books. He pulled a candle free from its holster, gripped the bottom of it, and snapped off a chunk of wax before setting it back down. He held the wax up clearly so she could see it and then closed his fist around it. His arms disappeared behind his back, and when they came back, both fists were closed tight. "A simple game, Abby. One hand has the wax, one hand has nothing. Pick the right one and your boots return to you."

Abby squinted. "What cruel trick are you playing now?"

"Choose," he insisted, shaking each of his fists.

Abby sighed, looked between them, and begrudgingly pointed to his left hand.

He opened it. It was empty. "The boots are mine," Logan said with a laugh. "But, as I said, I'm a fair man. Let's play again." He closed his fist, brought his hands behind him, and returned them to the table. "Try harder this time?"

"Harder!?" Abby snapped. "It's just a dumb game of chance! What does it _matter_ how hard I try?"

Logan shrugged. "Then choose."

Again, her eyes darted between them looking for some subtle difference. "I don't _know_... the left again," she told him impatiently.

He opened his palm. It was empty. "Wrong again, Abby. Aren't you suppose to be the 'Chosen Undead'?" Logan taunted with a laugh.

"If you continue this cruelty, I'll leave," Abby warned, though the prospect of marching through that chamber of golems frightened her.

"Once more," Logan said, "and we'll never play this game again. This time, I want you to _really_ think about which hand you choose. If you truly are the Chosen Undead, you can _not_ fail this. If you choose the empty hand again... your status is a farce." His hands vanished and returned a third time.

Abby took a deep breath and looked between the man's fists. She forced herself to relax and let her mind ease. _Your instincts_, she thought. _Just like with pyromancy. Just like when you calmed the Taurus Demon. Trust your instincts. _She closed her eyes a moment, and when she opened them, they were on his left hand again. "Left," she said.

Logan's mouth fell agape. His left fist opened and the chunk of candle rolled out from within.

Abby breathed a sigh of relief. "There," she said proudly and stuck her hand out for her boots. "Do you believe me now?"

Logan blew a breath through pursed lips, shook his head, and took up her boots. Just as they came into her reach, though, he yanked them away once again. His mouth closed and spread into a grin. He nodded to his right hand, and when it opened, a _second_ chunk of candle rolled out from within.

Abby watched as it rolled across the table at her and slowed to a halt beside the first chunk. She frowned. "It _was _a trick all along! You said-"

"Words are easy to conjure," Logan cut her off. "And this lesson was even more important than the first, Abby. There was nothing in my hands the first two times you chose. The last time, _both_ hands were filled. Do you know why?"

"Because you're a cruel old man," Abby said, surprised at just how _angry_ he'd made her.

"Because I gave you the illusion of choice," Logan went on, oblivious to the insult. "I presented you with two roads, and every time you took one you were _convinced _it was of your choosing, but it was _me_ who decided where they ended. By the third time, you were so _desperate _to convince both yourself and I that you were 'special', you really believed you had some mental power to see inside my hand? Abby... do you understand how ridiculous that is?"

"I-..." Abby stammered. _Don't cry before this man. Please don't cry._

"Lordran has shown you two closed hands and convinced you that by picking one or the other, you are making some _choice_ to save it," Logan said, standing from his chair. "Abby... you traveled with the knight of Carim, Lautrec, did you not?"

She lifted her head. "How-? How do you know that?"

Logan smiled and stepped around the desk to move nearer to her. "Lautrec... works for me. In a way."

"What?"

"Admittedly, he may not be completely _aware_ that he works for me, but he does," Logan went on, sitting on his desk, hovering above her. "Both he and I are working very tirelessly to accomplish the same task. Do you know what that task is?"

Lautrec had spoken briefly of it, and so Abby knew very little. "Lautrec... said he wanted to break some cycle."

"Yes," Logan said. "A cycle that has gone on for a very, very, long time. A cycle that this world of ours is now very, _very_, desperate to see continue. A cycle that ensures its existence. A cycle that ensures all those hollowed warriors and all those snarling beasts and all those wicked demons out there continue to live on - to survive - and to torment _all_ of us... _endlessly_."

Abby shook her head. "I know what you're getting at. You don't _want_ me to light the bonfire. You don't _want_ Lordran to be saved! If I don't light that fire, the world _ends_!"

"And what more is an 'end' than a chance for a new beginning?" Logan asked, leaning forward so his beak of a nose was hovering only a foot from Abby's face. "Abby, what do you think will happen when Gwyn finally breathes his last breath? Do you really believe things will just... _stop_?"

Abby swallowed, she hadn't though about it much. "I... the world will grow dark. _Cold_. It's happening right now! Look outside your castle walls!"

"'_And from the darkness a great light will stir'_," Logan said, lifting his eyes to the impossibly high ceiling above. "We won't perish, Abby. We will live on. And the world? The world will be _free_ from the shackles of time that bind it." He returned his gaze to her. "If you light that fire... you will be playing right into every wicked creature that inhabits this world's hand. You will restart a cycle that has enslaved humanity for an _eternity_."

"But the world will _live_!" Abby snapped back. "The _people-_"

"-will return to their chains until the next 'Chosen' comes and resets them all again. Forever." Logan lowered his head and a sadness came across his face. "I won't imprison you, Abby, though I easily could. But I know that if you leave her... and you go to your 'hollow army' in Anor Londo... they will see you to Gwyn, alright. They will take you as a slave and _force_ your hand to light the fire that will ensure their existence. It is... all they are concerned with. You are nothing to them. A tool. A tool to be used and discarded."

Abby looked to her hands and as she stared at them, such a deep sadness stole over her, she could no longer hold the tears from her eyes. They raced, warm and soft, down her cheek and dropped from her chin. "There's no other way," she croaked, avoiding looking at the man before her. "It is the 'cycle'... or it is the _end_."

Logan lowered himself to a knee before her and took up her hands in his own. When she lifted her face to him, he pressed a kerchief to her cheek and gently rubbed the tears away. He smiled. "Perhaps not," he said. "Abby... where are we?"

She sniffled. "Lordran."

"No. Here. Where is _this_?" He asked, looking around them.

"A prison."

"Mmm, yes," he agreed. "A prison... but also a library. Strange, isn't that? For the two to be as one? So close together. All the world's information... and the shackles to bind it. Abby, are you a pious young lady?"

Abby shrugged. "My parents didn't care much for Gods. I've never had the faith to cast miracles, either, so... I suppose not."

Logan nodded. "I've spent many a lifetimes reading books. Gathering knowledge. I know _all_ about Gods. We've gotten them wrong, though, Abby. They aren't what we thought they were."

She frowned. "I don't understand."

Logan turned to look at his desk. He found a small, bronze, scale there and scooped it up in his hand. "You see this scale? If I create this, if I mine the bronze, smelter it, form it, give it its shape and its purpose, I am its creator. Yet if I hand this to you," he said, placing the scale on her lap. "You control it. You decided what it does within the confines I've set. _You _decided to keep it or destroy it or smash it to bits, but at the end of the day it was _I_ who created it, and _you_ who played with it."

"Yes," Abby said, setting the scale back on his desk. "I understand that."

"And so is the way of the world," Logan explained. "The creators, _our_ creators, crafted this wonderful, vast, world for us to inhabit. They are the benevolent forces behind which _all_ things came to be. Their intellect and their passion; their drive and their _skill_... it sculpted this world of ours from nothing and made it into _something_!"

For the first time in a long time, Abby felt a smile come across her face.

"_Gods_ are the other things," Logan said dryly, looking up again with a flash of utter contempt crossing his face. "_They_ are the ones that inhabit this world now. _They_ are the ones responsible for its endless cycling. _They_ are the ones who cruelly beat us and kills us and steal from us all only for their own _entertainment_!"

Abby shook her head. "No... nothing could be that cruel."

"And yet they are. The creators left all of this information to us, Abby, here in these very walls," Logan went on. "I've read it! Time and time again, my inferior mind desperately trying to make sense of the words until finally, one day, one _lifetime_, I _did_, and everything clicked! Our creators are wonderful, Abby, but they have _abandoned _us! ...only the Gods remain now, and they are growing increasingly more cruel as they tire and bore of our lives."

"Why!?" She pleaded. "Why would the creators abandon us?"

Logan shrugged. "To move on to their _next_ creation, I suppose. And the worst part is that one day even the _Gods_ will forget us. Then we are _truly_ abandoned... truly _alone_."

"Then you think us doomed to a fate of darkness," Abby said, trying desperately to not let the thoughts overwhelm her, lest her heart break to pieces.

Logan smiled. "_No_." He stood, lifting her up with him by the hand. He led them around a stack of books towards the center of the chamber once more, where the lumbering crystal golems were still hard at work trying to piece their mechanical puzzle together. Logan pulled her along beside him as he began to circle the machine. "The creators are not cruel, Abby. They are _wonderful_, not cruel. They left us a way to combat the darkness... to move _on_ when all around us should fail. Do you know what this machine is?"

Abby looked at the cogs and the wheels and the levers and the bars protruding from every angle of the thing and couldn't even fathom a _guess_. "No," she admitted.

"Neither do I," Logan said, but his smile did not waver. "Neither does _any_ man, women, or child in Lordran. I've read just about every book in this castle, every scrap of information the creators left us behind, and do you know what they say about this mechanism?"

Abby shrugged.

"_Nothing!_" He cheered so loudly, the golems halted their work and turned their way.

"I don't... understand," Abby said.

"Why would they do it, Abby?" Logan asked. "Why would the Gods leave a massive, mechanical, contraption here like this? A massive, mechanical, contraption that is _incomplete_ nonetheless!? An incomplete machine beneath Lordran's largest and most abundant library, its biggest wealth of knowledge and information, and not leave a _scrap_ of information about it? Can't you see the _madness _in that!?" His voice had slowly been rising a crescendo, and was now at a scream. He calmed himself with a breath and went on. "And all of this... at the heart of a massive prison. Bars on the walls. Locks on the doors. Almost taunting us with our confines. A final hint... at what they want from us."

"The creators... you think they want us to _do_ something?"

Logan nodded, a mad glint had come to his eyes. "What more could a creator want than to see its creations _strive_? To watch them break free of the confines they bestowed upon them? To become something more than mere tools for the Gods to tinker with or simple, mindless, _insects _to scurry about from place to place without purpose_?"_ He laughed that queer laughter of his and grabbed her by the shoulders so she had to face him. "Abby... I'm going to complete the machine the creators left us. I'm going to piece it together and turn it on. I am going to accomplish what the very beings who _crafted_ this world of ours have always known one of us could." His head threw back and his laughter rumbled up into the tower. _It's echoing_, she realized as a chill ran her spine, _his laughter echoes where no other sound does. _"I'm going to do it, Abby, and all I ask is that you give me the time to. I'm going to finish the machine.

"_I'm going to break the cycle_!"


	17. Chapter 17

When the lift finally returned from the upper levels of the castle, the mechanical cogs grinding away beneath the weight of the wooden platform that lowered, it was not Abby who rode down, it was the masked crossbowmen, Chester, and he was alone. _It's been so long, _Quelana thought, climbing to her feet as the muzzled wolf beside her rose as well. _They've done something with her._ She turned to Solaire, who had been doing his best to ignore Kirk's taunts and threats as they waited, and had seated himself at the far end of the room beside an armoire. The knight stood and Quelana saw his hand grasp for a straight sword that was not in its hilt: it had been forfeit to the large man in the black chainmail, Petrus, upon their arrival. It was that large man now that strode forth to meet Chester. The men came together, exchanged quiet words, and Quelana saw a scroll of paper pass from the crossbowmen's hands to the plump one's. He unrolled it, read, and exchanged another quick hush of words with Chester before turning back to the group; his heavy cheeks red and his brow furrowed.

"Remove the witch's chains," he said, "Arm the Warrior of the Sun. Logan's orders."

As comforting as the man's words rang in her ears, Quelana ignored them and stepped forth. "Where is Abby?"

Petrus' frown deepened. "Does the girl lead this... fellowship of yours?" He asked, his eyes sweeping from her to the wolf, Solaire, and back.

Quelana hadn't considered it. Lautrec had been the closest thing they'd had to a 'leader'. But he was gone, and she was a coward, so it _had_ to be Abby or Solaire.

"She does," Solaire answered for her, striding across the room and plucking his sword back from Laurentius' grip. The pyromancer gave it up without hesitation, but the man's eyes fell to Quelana and studied her peculiarly - as he had done since discovering she was a witch. Solaire smiled at the blade, as if reunited with a forlorn old friend and turned back to Petrus. "Why do you ask that?"

"Because she is staying," Chester interjected, folding his arms across his chest.

"_Staying_?" Quelana echoed.

"That's right," the masked man said, sauntering across the room towards her. She recoiled as he neared, but he reached forth and snatched up her manacled wrists before she could escape him. He plugged them with a key and set her loose. "She's a smarter girl than you likely give her credit for."

"And Abby made this decision," Solaire questioned with a raised brow, "of her own accord?"

"According to this," Petrus said, slapping his meaty knuckles off the scroll of paper Chester had handed him.

Quelana wasn't sure what to make of their words just yet, but figured she'd be unlikely to receive any more answers-at least not _yet_-and so she held her tongue, awaited until her chains were completely removed, and knelt to free the wolf's snout from its muzzle.

"Not that," Chester stopped her, grabbing her wrist and yanking it away. "_That_ thing goes with Petrus," and when Quelana opened her mouth to protest him, he added, "the girl knows of this as well. She's agreed to it."

"And what happens to the rest of us?" Quelana asked.

"You're to be shown the guest quarters," Chester answered.

"I want to see Abby."

"She's tired."

"I want to see her," Quelana insisted.

The masked man cocked his head to the side. "...does she care about you?"

"Yes," Quelana answered immediately, and she felt it was a truth. She'd developed a bond with the young woman, and one way or another, she felt their paths were now locked on the same course until... until the end.

Chester nodded. "Then I shall deliver you." He faced Solaire. "But Logan wants no further interruptions, knight. Don't go wandering down to bother him with your nonsense."

Solaire's face reddened. "You call it nonsense only because you know I intend to bring up the _treason_ you and your friends acted out against both the mission and myself, and the _murder_ your pal over there committed in cold blood!" He shouted, shoving an accusatory finger in the knight of thorns' direction.

Kirk snorted derisive laughter, but did not deny the claim.

"No, I say this because it's true. Logan expended a great deal of energy convincing our new guest to stay," Chester said, "and he's not looking for any further conversation tonight. Do _not_ disturb him."

"I will not take order from-"

"That's _Logan's_ order. Not mine," Chester told him. "Any further protests and you can spend the night in a cell."

Solaire stood a moment longer, his hand balled to a fist at his chest, his mouth moving up and down looking for words that did not come. After a moment, his shoulders slumped, as if the air had been deflated from his armor, and he looked from Chester to Quelana. "Do you require my protection, my lady?"

_I'm not sure what I require, _Quelana thought, _but I doubt it lies within these walls. _She forced a smile and shook her head. "No. Thank you."

Solaire sighed, bowed to her, and fixed Chester with one, last, baleful, look before turning on his heel and disappearing into one of the room's side paths. Petrus lumbered over to the wolf and fixed a collar around the beast's thick neck. The wolf emitted a low growl from the depths of his throat, like the ominous rumble of an oncoming storm, but did not fight the man, and soon enough he was dragging the beast behind him around a different passage. Kirk, Laurentius, and Chester were the only ones left with her, and they soon crowded around her.

Kirk sneered and pointed a grubby finger in her direction. "The witch is all alone. You know... she don't look so scary without her friends."

Quelana lifted her hand, raised two fingers in the man's direction, and let a stream of liquidy fire spit from her fingertips. She commanded them just close enough to singe the loose frizzes of hair near his shoulder. Kirk backstepped and cursed her, but Laurentius moved between them. "He didn't mean anything by that, Daughter of Chaos," he assured her in his quiet, wormy, voice. "Perhaps... perhaps you'd allow me to see you to your quarters?" He asked, a hopeful raise of his brow accompanying the question. "I know the castle well. I could show it to you. We could discuss-"

"No," she said definitively, putting an end to his ramble.

Kirk's mirthless laugh came from behind the man's shoulder. "Fire bitch don't like you, Laur," he said.

Laurentius gave her a wounded look, but said no more.

"Come," Chester said, offering his hand. "Let us escape the presence of these savages."

"Coming from the _king_ savage, that means a lot, old friend," Kirk said and clapped the crossbowmen on the shoulder before leading Laurentius off around a bend in the wall.

Alone, Chester nodded to his extended hand, urging Quelana to take hold of it. She gave the masked man a shrewd look before marching past him, keeping her hands decidedly away from his to accentuate her disdain of him. She crossed to the lift and stepped warily onto its wooden footing. The lifts in Blighttown were far more frightening, and far more _large,_ than this one, but their path was visible from top to bottom, not hidden away, burrowed within castle walls, like this contraption. It made her uneasy, and when Chester joined her and pulled the lever to get the thing going, they slipped up into a tight fit of carved stone that pressed in all around them, the platform beneath her feet rumbling and shaking as it ascended. She took a breath and laid her hand upon the railing to steady herself.

After a few moments of silence, only the steady _whirrrr _of the lift's mechanism filling the tight chamber, Chester turned on her and asked, "What is she interested in?"

The question seemed so abruptly asinine, she barely comprehended the words. "What?"

"Abby," Chester clarified, "You traveled alongside her for _days_. Surely you learned of some of the girl's interests, no?"

Quelana frowned. "What business of that is yours?"

Chester's dark eyes peered out from beneath his mask, and, though she couldn't see, Quelana got the distinct impression he was grinning under there. "Only a curiosity."

"Well keep your curiosity away from Abby," Quelana snapped. "She's a sweet girl and you're a terrible beast of a man."

Chester lifted his hands, as if to feign injury. "_Me_? And what exactly have _I_ done to be admonished so truculently?"

"Don't play the fool with me. If you had your way back on the bridge where we first encountered you..."

"I wouldn't have touched the girl," Chester answered, without hearing the rest of her accusation. "If I recall correctly, I believe it was my large, _thorny, _friend who was making all the threats."

"You did nothing to stop him," Quelana snapped.

"He took no action to _merit_ me stopping him," Chester answered with a nonchalant roll of his shoulders. He cocked his head and fixed her with an unreadable look from beneath his mask. "Listen, witch, you're girl has chosen to stay here. I know you'll likely try to talk her out of it, but she won't listen to you. She's spoke with Logan. The man is... very persuasive. So whether you like it or not, you're all going to be here awhile. Would it really be so terrible if the girl had someone like me to watch over her?"

"I know what men like you want," Quelana hissed, wishing the infernal lift would come to its stop already so she could be rid of the man. "Don't think I'm foolish enough to believe its something as noble as 'watching over her'."

"And what do _you_ want from her?" Chester asked, his own voice taking on some anger now. "You met her only a few days before I, and yet you clutch to her as selfishly as if she were your living child! What are _your _intentions?"

Quelana thought of Blighttown almost immediately, before she could stop herself, and of the path to Izalith that would lead her back to her sisters and to... what remained of her mother, if anything remained at all. The thoughts stole upon her mind so quickly, she'd barely processed them by the time Chester pressed his assault. "You'd use her the same as any man or woman in this castle. Don't think yourself so high above us _humans_ because you can light a child's birthday candles with your bare hands. You're as prone to greed as any of us."

"You know nothing of who I am," Quelana said.

"And you know nothing of _me_, and yet you expect to pass judgement with none passed back in return?" Chester asked. "If you'd stop being so damned stubborn, you'd realize I'm trying to offer you a truce here. The girl... Abby... there's a certain quality to her. I won't deny it. She _is _special. Those around her are drawn to her, _magnetized _by her. It is... it is un_fair _for you to hog her all to yourself."

The man in that instant reminded her so much of Lautrec, she half-expected him to pull away his mask and reveal he _was_ the golden knight in disguise. She fixed him with a glare before lifting her gaze to see the ride was finally coming to its end. "Stay away from her," Quelana warned.

"That's her decision, not yours," he pointed out.

"That's true," Quelana admitted, raising her hand. "But I would remind you that your men have removed my shackles, and accidents _do_ happen." She commanded a spurt of flame to lick the air around her fingertips.

"Unleash your fire within these walls," Chester threatened, "and I'll see to it that your shackles are put right back on and you'll spend the rest of your days in Logan's special dungeon."

_Special dungeon? _Quelana thought, fixing him with a puzzled look.

For the first time since she'd met him, the masked man's eyes looked disconcerted beneath his mask, as if he'd stepped into a corner of their verbal battle he hadn't mean to step to.

Quelana opened her mouth to probe him further on this 'dungeon' when the lift jolted to a halt, and Abby's voice called to her from outside it, "Quelana!"

Both she and Chester shared a look that let the other know there would most-certainly be a second part of their conversation before Quelana, graciously, climbed off the wooden platform and came upon Abby standing at the foot of a long flight of wooden stairs, barefoot and tired-looking, but smiling all the same. "Abby," she breathed the word with a wash of relief as she descended the stairs. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine," Abby said, taking Quelana in her arms and squeezing. "Have they told you? Well, I guess they took the shackles away, so... you know?"

Quelana pulled back, but kept her hands resting on the girl's elbows. "You want to stay?"

Abby's smile broadened. She nodded.

Quelana considered asking her what this 'Logan' could have possibly said to change her mind, which had seemed so bullishly set upon _leaving _before she'd spoken with him, but Abby's eyes _were_ dark under the lids, and there was a fatigued droop to her smile that looked foreign and strange on her pretty face, so Quelana held her tongue on the matter. Instead, she looked Abby over and asked, "Where are your boots?"

Abby looked to her feet and laughed. "Oh, my. I forgot them. They went flying. I almost slipped, but... I caught myself, and... I guess so much happened, I just... well, I forgot, and..." Her words were coming mumbled and disorganized, her eyes unfocused as she spoke. "Oh, Quelana. I promise you. We will still return you to Blighttown. I just... I need to stay for... a bit. I need to know if... if he is right..."

"You need rest," Quelana said, placing her hand on the girl's cheek to slow her incoherent mumbles. "Just answer me this, Abby. This Logan didn't harm you in any way or... or do anything to your mind, did he?"

Abby's brow scrunched up as if Quelana had asked something so preposterous it didn't merit an answer. She gave one anyway, "No. Nothing like that." Then, after swaying on her feet and snapping her eyes open to wake herself, added, "You're not mad at me, are you? For wanting to stay?"

"No, Abby," she assured the girl. "Come. We'll get you to bed," she said, glancing back up the staircase to Chester, who'd been watching them silently leaned against a pillar. "You promised guest quarters. Show us to them."

He did not move.

"Yes... I suppose I would like to sleep for a bit," Abby admitted.

Chester shoved off the pillar at once and bowed to her. "As my lady commands. Follow me."

The guest quarters were found through a maze of winding tunnels, up a tight spiraling staircase that ascended the inner walls of a short tower, and at the end of a long hall garnished with carpeting on its floor, paintings on its walls, and torches lighting its path. Chester moved beside a wooden door and gestured to it with a bow. "Logan offers his complete hospitality. Anything you should need, Abby, I will see to." His hand reached for hers and when Quelana moved to block it, he quickly brushed past her and snatched it up. "I will be at your beck and call," he whispered, tucked a thumb beneath the chin of his mask to expose a pair of thin lips, and kissed her hand. "...I could stay with you tonight. If you'd like."

Quelana took Abby by the arm and pulled her away from the man. "She wouldn't," she said and led her into the room. When she turned back to close the door, he was still standing there, tall and lean in his dark long coat and top hat, the painted face of his mask aglow from the nearest torchlight, he looked as menacing as his thorn-armored friend downstairs. She slammed the door on him.

The room was small, cozy: bookshelves along the walls, an unlit hearth at one end, a large bed at the other. It was a welcome and comforting change from the vast openness of the rest of the castle. Abby had collapsed to a cushioned chair beside the door the moment she'd gotten inside, and Quelana left her there to rest as she moved to the hearth, moved three logs of kindling from the outside of the firepit to the inside, and hovered her palm above them. She sprayed a soft bath of flame onto the logs, holding as they slowly caught, and the room came alive with their warmth and their light.

She turned back to ask Abby how she was feeling, but the girl had already fallen asleep in the chair. Quelana went to her, laid a hand to her forehead, and discovered she was not fevered. _Only tired, _she thought. _So I hope. _She bent and scooped her arms beneath the girl's knees and shoulders, lifting her and quickly spinning to deposit her to the bed beside the chair. It was a soft, large, thing, and Abby sunk into its quilted blanketing immediately. Quelana smiled, the sight of the girl resting so peacefully providing her with a different kind of warmth than the burning hearth, and brushed a short, rogue, strand of hair that she had missed when shaving the girl's head from her brow.

Quelana went to the door and fiddled with its handle til it locked, but upon a moment's inspection, she grew dissatisfied with it and decided to further fortify their quarters by dragging the cushioned chair before it, blocking its hinged path. She checked the windows that peeked in on either side of the hearth, locking them shut as well and drawing the heavy, burgundy, curtains closed over the frost-caked glass. She looked around the room, realizing she'd likely _never_ be truly satisfied they were safe, and so crossed to the bed with a sigh and covered Abby in the blanketing before lowering herself beside the girl. _I will watch over her, _Quelana thought, resting her hand on Abby's side and watching as the girl's slow, rhythmic, breaths rose and fell it. Humans were always sleeping, it seemed, sometimes as long as half an entire day. She didn't need that kind of rest; one of the few differences between herself and them. _I will burn them all before they harm her._

It was with those thoughts that she drifted to sleep.

**-o-o-o-**

When she woke, her breathing came labored, her sight had gone to black, and the sounds of voices and movement came muffled to her ears. Her heart thundered so loudly in her own head, she thought for a moment it was a war drum. Instincts arose, and her hands grew warm with fire. Somewhere outside the blackness, a muffled voice yelped, and another snapped, "_I told you_!". Quelana twisted her arms, but someone was gripping them both above and below her elbows. "_She's going to catch herself on fire!_" Someone yelled. She shouted into the black and heard her own voice was muffled as well. _They've put a bag over my head, _she realized. _These men are stealing me away to execute me. _She roared and commanded another flash of fire from her palms, but this time she felt the flames run close to her own body, and someone shrieked, "_You idiots!_"

The grip on her arms came free and she stumbled away from her captors in the blackness, falling to her knees. Her hands came up and ripped the bag from her head, but it did little good: wherever they'd managed to haul her was very dark. Walls crowded in beside her elbows and faint silhouettes stood before her in a long, narrow, tunnel. A hand lashed out and struck her across the jaw, knocking her off balance and spilling her to the floor. The figure rushed forth, but she'd recovered enough to lift a hand, extend her fingers, and burn.

"_AAAH!_" The scream came so terrified from the figure, the men standing behind him recoiled. Her flame erupted into the hall, lighting it ablaze, and encapsulated him before it died; she'd left it burn just long enough for his clothing to catch, though. "_She's burned me!_" He shouted and began slapping at his flaming chest and legs in a panic. "_She's _killed _me! Gods help me!_"

The men behind the burning one rushed forth and tossed a heavy blanket over his head, wrapping him and shoving him to the ground to smother the flames. Quelana scrambled to her feet and backed away from them. One jolted forth, but she shouted and sent a trail of fire down the length of the tunnel. It was enough to scare him off so she could retreat further away. _If they realize I need to rest my flames between spells, _she thought with a sense of dread stealing over her, _they'll swarm and kill me before I burn not two more of them._

"I told you!" One of them was screeching. "I _warned _you!"

She stole a glance over her shoulder and saw the tunnel had reached its end. It split into a 'T' shape, two more, equally-dark, passages rushing away in either direction. _Where have they taken me?_ She wondered, darting her eyes between the two paths frantically.

"She's getting away! _Grab her!_"

Quelana cupped her hands and sent a fireball flying down the tunnel at the men-the last of her inner flame's pool-and did not bother to watch what happened to them.

She turned, picked a path at random, and ran: ran as fast as she could; the men's screams filling the tunnel behind her in a chorus of terror and rage and pain.


	18. Chapter 18

The deer entered the forest clearing, a trail of dotted footprints following along behind it in the thick blanket of snow that had layered itself upon ever last bit of the woods. The creature stepped forth cautiously, its long legs taking graceful strides to plow forth in the snowfall, and dipped its head to sniff at a cluster of plants. _We'll all eat well tonight, _Lautrec thought, lying as still as the snow itself atop an embankment, _if the boy hurries up and takes the damned shot. _He shifted subtly in the entrenched pit he'd laid himself in to squint deeper into the woods. There, amongst a cluster of browns and green, he could see Benjamin planted on one knee, his longbow shouldered, the bowstring pulled taught and nocked with an arrow. The boy's face was too distant for Lautrec to see, but the dark beard he'd sprouted along his chin was frosted with ice and his brow was set in a hard line below his fall of shaggy, brown, hair. _Loose you fool, _Lautrec thought. _This is the cleanest shot you'll get._

Ben did not loose, however. He was still, quiet, but he wasn't loosing his arrow. Lautrec would have taken the shot himself, but he hadn't taken a bow along with them. He'd never been any good with a ranged weapon, found no use for them, and so he'd left the hunting today up to the boy. As far as he was concerned, the only skill worth training yourself in was dual-wielding. There was nothing quite like the thrill of combat up close, no shield to defend yourself, no spell to rely upon. When you dual-wielded, there was only you, your opponent, and the attack; _always _the attack. He liked that. _The skill serves you little use today, though, _he thought. _And if the fool of a kid doesn't take the shot soon, we'll be eating dog again. _

Somewhere far deeper in the woods a twig snapped. The distant _click _of sound was barely audible, but it was enough to spook the creature. The deer lifted its head from the plants, stared wide-eyed towards the sound, and broke for the opposite direction.

The arrow took its throat: clean, quick, and fatal.

Lautrec rose from his trench, brushed the snowfall from his leathers, and shuffled down the icy embankment. Benjamin was rushing forward to meet him at the opposite side of the clearing, smiling from ear to ear. "Got him," he said, lifting his chin and broadening the smile.

"Why didn't you take the shot sooner? Were you trying to lose us a meal?" Lautrec admonished the kid, stepping around a cluster of plants to kneel beside the catch. The deer was very dead, a clean line of blood spraying from its neck in a straight line beside it.

"There's no sport in hitting a still deer," Ben said, stepping beside him. "I wanted a moving target. And _look_ at that shot!"

Lautrec looked up at the boy and frowned. "There's no 'sport' involved when it comes to deciding whether we'll _eat_ tonight or not. Don't do that again."

"You're no fun. I _did_ kill the thing."

Lautrec pulled strips of leather from his coat pocket and began binding the deer's hooves for the haul. As he worked, Ben circled the fallen creature, his eyes scanning the out perimeter of the clearing. "We're done today," Lautrec told him, guessing at the boy's thoughts.

"There's still light," Ben protested, pointing skyward where a chunk of glowing white stone was sitting lazily amongst the cloud beyond a stand of trees.

Lautrec pulled a dagger and cut the deer's throat to try and salvage the arrow that had taken it, but found the thing splintered against the creature's bone within. "We'll run out of arrows before we run out of light," he said, showing the kid the busted thing.

Ben shrugged. "The blacksmith can make more."

"I suppose he could," Lautrec admitted. "If he had the supplies, that is. Which he doesn't."

Ben fixed him with a defiant look, but after Lautrec did not waver, he sighed and slumped his shoulders in defeat. "Fine. Let's head back."

It was strange to see the kid with so much life to him. When Lautrec had first come across him at the Undead Asylum, he was alright, but as they came to the Firelink Shrine and the Burg beyond, he'd seemed to have lost all of his energy, moping along beside them and not saying much. He had been sick then, too, but this new Ben he'd come to was healthy and well. _Which means if the witch's theory is __correct, _Lautrec thought as he hoisted the deer onto his shoulders, _and both he and Abby _are _connected in some strange way... either the girl has been severely weakened... or she's dead._ He grunted in exertion as his injured leg-which was growing less and less injured by the day-cracked beneath the weight of the deer when he stood. He winced, kicking it to work the stiffness from it, and began marching back through the snow the way they'd come, Ben trailing beside him. He looked at the boy's bearded face and narrowed his eyes. _What does it matter if she's dead. Her _or _the witch. They were _not _your allies, _Lautrec reminded himself, though he found his thoughts turning to them and what may have become of them frequently as the days passed.

They hadn't gone deep into the Darkroot Forest, opting to stay close enough to the Parish to retreat should they be overwhelmed by... well, _any_thing that may have been stalking this new, cold, world of Lordran. The climb out up the hillsides were the worst, and Lautrec's knee didn't have the stamina yet to carry both the deer and himself, and so Benjamin shared the load for awhile. Once the climb was done with, though, the path to the Parish was easy traveling. They trudged through a short stretch of woods, passed beneath a stone tower that Andre had called his home before the cold had come upon the world, and after only a short walk after, the church bell tower was looming above them in the sky, calling them home. _Home_, Lautrec thought, _what an odd word to associate with this place. _He'd been there for five nights now, though. He'd eaten with Andre and Domhnall and Sieglinde and Benjamin by night, had shared stories and thoughts by day, had even watched as Sieglinde tended to some of the stolen children's wounds that they'd taken from Logan. It was growing more and more difficult _not _to think of the place as a home. _It matters not_, he told himself. _We leave on the morrow._

It was Sieglinde who greeted them at the church doors. The woman-who stood taller than Lautrec himself-bounded down the stairs upon spotting them and her freckled face brightened as she clasped her hands together. "A _deer_!?" She shouted, laughing. "Oh, that's... that's _wonderful_! _Andre_!" She called back into the church. "The boys brought home a deer!"

_Boys, _Lautrec thought with a laugh. _I haven't been called one of the 'boys' since squiring for Sir Tannenhall back home in Carim. _Sieg moved forth to congratulate them, but Lautrec held a hand and shouldered past her. She fixed him with a disappointed look, but Benjamin was right behind him, and soon enough she had her big arms wrapped around his body, squeezing. "A deer..." he heard her say breathlessly over his shoulder as he climbed the steps into the church. "Tonight we will eat well."

Of that much, at least, she had been right. As night stole upon the world outside the church walls, the fire and smell of cooking meat filled the world inside. It had been Domhnall who'd set up their little dining hall nestled snugly inside the church's tiered alter section. There was a long wooden table (that was really a patched up pew turned on its side) and rows of chairs for each side. At the head of the church, beneath the broken statue, Andre had built them a firepit, and it was there that the deer's meat cooked and sizzled over the flames. The smell had pulled some of the children from their hiding place behind the cracked section of wall that housed them, and as Lautrec sat, he could see two pairs of white eyes, starkly contrasted against dirty faces, watching from within. Sieglinde took food to them as soon as it was ready, and a chorus of excited whispers and giggles came rushing out from within their room as she did. Domhnall wore a big, toothy, smile as he clapped both Ben and Lautrec on their shoulders and congratulated them on a good job. Andre finished cutting portions for everyone else, and brought the food to the table on a slab of wood. The four of them feasted upon it so quickly, so _hungrily_, Sieglinde scolded them upon returning, adding, "It's like feasting with _four _Andres!"

"But my lady," Domhnall said in his pleasant way, a mouthful of deer slightly muffling his words, "Andre _already_ feasts like four Andres!"

The table had a good laugh at that. Even Lautrec managed a grin. They ate the rest of their meal graciously, the blacksmith thundering an occasional belch (to which Sieglinde was quick to point out his lack of manners each time), Dom sharing tales of his life as a traveling merchant, and Benjamin listening intently, transfixed with each ebb and flow of drama in the man's stories. Lautrec didn't say a word. He'd always preferred to listen at a dinner table instead of converse. He found more often than not, people revealed more of who they truly were when the food was hot and the sun was down and their bellies full of meat and mead. They had no honey for _proper_ mead, but the blacksmith had stolen away a bit of a dry, red, wine from the Archives before they'd fled, and had saved it for a special occasion. Being as this was their last night together and the _first_ night they had the pleasure of feasting on anything other than dog, he'd uncorked the bottle and poured.

When the food had gone, and Sieglinde had checked and confirmed the children were sleeping, Andre raised his arms over his head and growled one of his big, grizzly, sighs as he stretched and slumped into the chair at his back. The table had gone quiet, a cold wind slipping through the battened windows and sending their little fire into a wild dance that painted the walls with the dark, shifting, silhouettes of their shadows. The blacksmith peered across the table, staring at Lautrec as he spoke, "How was that knee today?"

"Carried me out and back," Lautrec told him, sipping at the last of his wine.

"No pain?"

"None worth noting."

Andre nodded. "Then yer still plannin' on takin' off tomorrow?"

"I am," Lautrec said. He looked to Benjamin. "Any protests?"

Ben, who'd they'd all agreed upon two days earlier was the only one of them that could accompany him, shook his head. "No. I'm ready."

Andre leaned forward in his chair, folding his meaty hands together on the table. "Let me hear it one more time."

Lautrec sighed. "I think we've all heard it enou-"

"Once more, young fella," Andre insisted. "Humor an old man."

He watched the leathery skin of the smith wrinkle up at the eyes and brow, nodding for him to go on, and so, with a shake of his head, he did. "I'll take the boy to Sen's Fortress," he began. "We passed the path on our way back from the woods. It was clear. You claim the fortress is abandoned, and our climb to its top should be brief and easy. Once there, we are to await this 'bat winged demon' of yours to carry us to Anor Londo."

"You have to be kind to it," Sieglinde added. "The demon has always worked the secret passage to the city, but since the cold... it has grown feral and distrusting. It _will_ still take you, though. It took us."

Ben ran a hand through his beard. "I'm not thrilled at the idea of being carried around by some _demon_."

"On that we can agree," Lautrec said. "But what other choice is there? Swinging around through the forest would be long and perilous."

"Aye," Domhnall agreed. "Twas the way I came. Wouldn't take _that_ journey again for all the rare armors in the world."

"Once you're in Anor Londo..." Sieglinde pressed him to continue.

"We head towards the Archives. I know that way," Lautrec said. "Then we find your little shortcut outside the main passage. Black stone resting against a white tree. We spot that and follow a hidden path that-"

"It's no hidden path," Andre interrupted. "It's an illusionary wall. You'll have to pass right through it, as if the stone weren't even there at all!"

"Right," Lautrec said, his eyes flicking to Ben. "I'll make _him _test that."

Ben frowned.

"Then..." Andre pressed.

_This is what he wants confirmed, _Lautrec thought. _More than anything, _this _is what running over this damned journey again was all about. _"Then I kill Logan," Lautrec said. _Or I don't, _he thought, keeping his face straight to mask his ambivalence. _We will see. For all I know, _you're _the insane one, smith, and Logan is the one with his mind still in tact. In this new world of ours... who can __know for sure._

Andre nodded. "Yes... yes."

"And my father," Sieglinde said, the words spilling from her mouth in a rush of desperation. "He may yet still live. Find him, knight. Find him and I will be forever in your debt."

"I'll... do what I can," he told her. _These people save your life, _he thought. _And now they'd have you running their errands and carrying out their assassinations all over Lordran. _

"Abby may be there," Domhnall added to the conversation. "If she still lives that is..." His voice grew sad and he smiled wistfully at his hands. "Such a sweet thing to come upon the company of such cruel men."

"That's right," said Andre. "I forgot. _Your _friends may yet still live. If Kirk and the others took them prisoner-"

"They aren't my friends," Lautrec cut him off. "And I know the knight of thorns. He's not the prisoner-taking sort."

Andre's face darkened. "Yes... the man was monstrous even at the Archives under Solaire's watch. He liked to spar and fight and take women, often times screaming all the way, to his quarters after he'd had a few drinks in him. The man is pure venom. But if the Knight Solaire rode in their comapny-"

"Solaire was in ropes. I told you that."

Sieglinde shook her head. "It just doesn't make sense. Logan sent the Warrior of the Sun out to lead those men and... well, find _you_ I suppose. Why would they betray him?"

"If Chester was with him, it makes sense I s'ppose," Andre said. "Him and Kirk were thick as thieves them two. _Neither_ ever liked Solaire. The pyromancer... who can say about that fella. He kept to himself a lot in the Archives."

"What _other_ kind of men can I expect to run into at these Archives?" Lautrec questioned. "Doesn't Logan have a _hold_ on any of these people? He _is _their leader isn't he?"

Andre and Sieglinde shared an unclear look. It was Sieglinde who spoke first, "Things were... not in a good state when we fled the Archives. Logan... he doesn't come out of his dungeon. The men and women were growing restless. There was... talk of mutiny."

"Mutiny?" Lautrec echoed. "If they're going to overthrow the wizard, why send _me_ to kill him?"

"They won't be _able_ to overthrow Logan, that's why," Sieglinde went on. "We told you. The man commands golems to his will."

"He had five or six when we left," Andre added. "But it seemed more were showing up every day. They'd come lumberin' up out of the caverns in the garden or up through Anor Londo from the forest. Strangest thing is, they all came carrying these... hmm, I guess they were _cogs_ or something. Wheels, maybe."

"Cogs?" Ben piped up. "What does he want with _cogs_?"

Andre shrugged. "What does any man want with a cog? Seems to me like he's building some contraption."

Lautrec drummed his fingers along the table. "_How _does he command these golems?"

"No idea, young fellow," Andre admitted. "He's a mad wizard. I'm sure he has his ways."

Lautrec frowned. "So, assuming I _make_ it to these Archives without losing my head to some beast, or being dropped to my death by a winged demon, and _if _I manage to break into the castle and find Logan, make my way past his army of golems, and get close enough to finish the job... he may not even die."

Sieglinde's brow wrinkled. "What does _that _mean?"

"He commands golems, who's to say he hasn't figured some spell to cast himself into immortality."

"That's ridiculous," Andre said.

"I would say the same thing about commanding golems," Lautrec said, "but apparently he's gotten along with that just fine."

"He'll die," Andre assured him with a nod of his great mane of white hair.

"He'd better," Benjamin snapped. "It's bad enough we're being sent out on this crazy mission! I don't even want to _think_ about going all that way to find some foe we can't slay!"

Domhnall, who'd been listening to them all quietly for awhile, spread his arms to his side and said, "Alright, so you kill Logan and stop the madman from taking any more children... what then? If Abby is gone..."

"I'll look for the girl," Lautrec admitted. "But she's likely dead, merchant." He turned to Benjamin. "And if she is... she wasn't the _only _Chosen Undead. _He _can light the bonfire at the Kiln of the First Flame the same as her."

Ben's eyes widened and he scanned the table, seemingly surprised they were all looking at him so intently. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and lowered his head.

"He'd need the Lordvessel," Dom said, studying every inch of the bearded boy beside him. "The way's been all sealed up again, the Bequeathed Lord Souls scattered."

"Scattered?" Lautrec questioned. "Scattered to _what_?"

Domhnall shrugged. "To whatever has come _back _to this new, cold, Lordran of ours."

Lautrec thought of the two-headed Taurus Demon they'd fought and killed at the Firelink Shrine and of the possible horrors that awaited in the other, _darker_, corners of the world. The thought made him feel ill. He put it aside. "None of this matters if we die on our journey," he said. "We can figure this all out when we return."

"Perhaps the boy should stay then," Domhnall suggested. "If poor Abby truly is gone... he may be Lordran's last hope."

"I don't want to stay," Ben protested immediately. "I've been left back once. I can fight. I can _shoot_. I proved that, Lautrec! You _know_ I did!"

Lautrec raised his hand to calm the kid. "Relax, boy. I'm taking you with me. I need someone watching my back." He surveyed the thin, shaggy-headed, young man before him. "Just watch it well."

Ben nodded, fighting back a smile that was threatening to creep up his face.

"If we're done here," Lautrec said, turning back to the table. "I have a long journey ahead of me tomorrow. I'd like to rest." He began to stand from his chair when he caught a strange look pass from Sieglinde to Andre. He narrowed his eyes on the two of them and sat back down. "What is it? What _now_?"

"There is... one more problem you may run into along the way," Andre said, twiddling his giant thumbs against one another.

"Oh?" Lautrec questioned, his eyes shifting from Andre to Sieglinde. "And what problem could there be that was worth keeping concealed from me?"

"We weren't _concealing _it," Sieglinde protested. "It just... didn't seem important earlier when we were trying to talk you into going."

"If it's important enough to bring up _now_, it was important enough then," Lautrec said, anger heating his skin.

"Sen's Fortress," Andre said quietly. "It's... not exactly abandoned."

_Always another lie,_ Lautrec thought with a shake of his head. "What then? Dogs?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Sieglinde said. "We made it through the fortress without seeing a single foe."

"Then _what_?"

"In the early days of the Great Cold," Andre began. "When people first started gathering under Logan's newly acquired castle... not everyone was permitted." He lifted his eyes to look at Lautrec. "Do you know of the bishop, Havel?"

"Havel the Rock?" Lautrec asked. "Big man? Heavy armor? Carries a dragon's _tooth _for a weapon?"

"Aye," Andre said. "And a man who never hid his disdain for magic and wizards. Logan, of course, knew of this. So when Havel showed up at the Archives like the rest of Lordran... Logan had him turned away."

Lautrec looked from Andre to Sieglinde and back. "So what? He lives in Sen's?"

"He didn't go away _quietly_," Andre went on. "He made camp outside the walls. By day he would smash the gates with his dragon's tooth. By night he would scream and scream, demanding Logan face him in combat like a true warrior."

"Logan's no fool," Lautrec admitted. "Unless he had an open field as his battleground, the bishop would slaughter him."

"But Logan _did _face him," Sieglinde explained. "After three nights of Havel's screaming, he had his men permit the man inside and see him to his dungeon."

"He faced Havel in the Archives dungeons?"

"At the base of the prison tower, yes," Andre confirmed. "No one was there for the fight. No one witnessed what took place between those two men whose hatred for each other was so _contemptuous _they meant to kill one another while the world around them was crumbling."

"Well I know Logan lives," Lautrec said. "You're telling me Havel does as well?"

Andre nodded. "What I hear-and this is only what I _hear_-is that Logan defeated Havel the Rock, but instead of killing him, poisoned his mind with some sorcery or another and turned him as mad as Logan himself... maybe madder.

In the end, Havel was banished anyway, but the man who walked out of that castle was _not _the same man that went into it. Men say his eyes... his eyes had gone hollow, but the rest of him hadn't, if that makes any sense to ya. The story goes that Havel wandered aimlessly outside the castle walls for _days_ before marching off towards Anor Londo. No one's ever seen him since."

Lautrec frowned. "But you said-"

"We didn't _see _anyone in Sen's Fortress," Sieglinde said, a look of dread crossing over her freckled face. "We heard him, though. Heard him screaming. ...heard him crying."

Ben's mouth had fallen agape, his eyes wide and frightened. "And now we... we have to go _through _there?"

"He didn't bother _us_," Andre said.

"I don't think he _heard_ us, Andre," Sieglinde added. "So just... I'd be very quiet going through the fortress is all. It shouldn't be a problem."

"No," Lautrec started sardonically, "No problem at all. Only a mad man with a weapon the size of a horse, armor on his body that can scarcely be penetrated by sword or spell, and a massive, dark, maze of a tower for him to roam around in, smashing things to pieces."

"You can do it," Andre said. "I seen you cut down five men at once to get what you want before."

"None of _them _were carrying a dragon's _tooth_..."

Ben was looking between the two of them, a perplexed expression frozen on his face. "So... what now? Do we still go?"

Domhnall, Andre, and Sieglinde all fixed him with the same, anxious, look.

Lautrec glanced around at them, stood, and shoved his chair back under the table. "Now we rest. We leave first thing on the morrow. Let us hopewhen we come across this mad Havel the Rock... the Gods smile upon us."

_Or better yet, _he thought, walking off towards his bedding without waiting for response, _let us hope we don't need cross him at all. _

In the church's upper level, a sole window was cut into an indentation in the hall as he passed to his room. He paused and peered outside it into the dark. There, resting on a faraway cliff beneath the pale moonlight, a toy-sized structure of stone loomed over Lordran and the surrounding forests, tiny specks of light glowing from within like fireflies come to rest. It was the distant figure of the Duke's Archives.

Lautrec narrowed his eyes upon it. _Ana... I'm coming._


	19. Chapter 19

The great hall was alive with a chorus of chatter, as was usual during meal hour, when Solaire entered beneath the brightly bannered archway that spilled into the grandiose room. The knight drew up to the end of a row of long, wooden, tables, and stood watching over the people of Lordran as they feasted; they were the only people left. _Praise the sun, _he thought, his eyes flicking from table to table, _our numbers dwindle as the days pass. _It was true: before he'd ventured out on Logan's quest with the-admittedly, poorly chosen-men he'd taken alongside him, the great hall would have had every last seat filled when the rations of meat and bread and water were passed out. Now, however, he could see empties-plenty of them-and it awakened a sadness in his heart. _How many lost their lives from a sickness we could not cure? _He wondered. _Or a wound we could not close? Or a belly we could not fill? _They were dying here. He could see it not only from the empty seats at the long table, but from the grim looks upon their faces.

A couple seated just beside his vantage point wore perhaps the most somber of all faces. The man was Timothy, a burly, usually-cheerful, fellow who Solaire had shared a meal or two with in days past. His wife, Eileen, was a squat, plump, woman with a bun of dark hair tied up above her round face. There was usually a third beside them, a boy of eight years, but he was missing. When Solaire moved beside the couple, it was Eileen who's dark eyes fell upon him first. Her cheeks reddened and she grabbed at her husband's hand to call his attention. Timothy looked to the knight and his brow creased sorrowfully. "Knight Solaire..." he greeted in a quiet voice.

"Timothy. Eileen," he returned the greeting. "How goes your-"

"It goes like _shit_," Eileen growled, barring her teeth at him like some feral beast. "Don't play the fool with us, Solaire. You can see our son is not among us."

Solaire swallowed and shifted uncomfortably on his heel. "My lady, I-"

"It's all gone to shit, knight," Eileen snapped. "And it's _your _fault!"

"Ellie..." Her husband began calmly, reaching across the table to grip her hand.

She snatched it away before he could and turned her anger on him instead. "Don't you shush me, Tim. Don't you do that. We've held our tongues long enough. I'm tired of suffering in silence." She looked back to Solaire, venom in her eyes. "You tell Logan we're _sick _of it. You hear me? We sit here day after day as our people die around us and our children disappear and we're _sick of it!_"

"Your children _disappear_?" Solaire repeated.

"My boy..." Eileen began, but her bottom lip took on a quiver and her brow creased and shortly after, tears were spilling from her eyes. Her husband stood, shuffled around the table, and sat beside her, stroking her hair and whispering comforts in her ear.

Solaire watched them quietly for a while before saying, "My lady, if something has happened to your child, you need only tell me and I swear to you I will do everything I can to make it right."

"What's the _point_?" The woman managed between sniffles. "We're all going to die here."

"I-" Solaire began, intending to refute that claim, when an arm pulled at his elbow. He turned to see the boy who'd squired for him, Henrik, standing at his side attentively. "Henrik," he greeted with a nod.

The young man bowed, but when his head lifted again, his face was as somber as the couple's beside them. "Petrus doesn't want you talking with the people," he said sheepishly. "He says... says you're riling them up."

"Petrus?" Solaire questioned. He looked in the direction the boy had come from and saw the heavyset man stood atop a raised platform at the far end of the hall; his arms folded across his black chainmailed armor, his eyes boring across the room into Solaire.

"I'm sorry, Solaire," Henrik began. "I squire for him now. You were gone, and... no one knew whether you were coming back or not, and-"

"It's quite alright, Henrik," Solaire told the young man, offering him a reassuring smile and a clap on the shoulder. "You made yourself useful. That's what matters," he said, then after lifting his eyes back to the fat man standing vigil over the hall, "You can tell Petrus I won't be a bother." Henrik nodded and turned to leave, but Solaire kept hold of his arm, jerking him back. He added, "But you make sure he knows I intend to be informed about any troubles that have befallen our men and women. That includes any 'missing children'."

"Yes, sir," Henrik said, bowed, and headed back across the hall.

"_Solaire!_" A new voice called.

The knight turned and squinted into the sea of heads and bodies that littered the great hall. He spotted a man looking his way, but the fellow was shouting at a friend of his near Solaire. A bit further on, across from a table filled with a group of sorrow-faced women-Solaire knew them well; they were all widowed, their husbands killed by the hollows or by disease or by worse-he spotted a hulking, black, tank of a man waving to him. _Tarkus, _he thought as he returned the wave and began heading the man's way. _Petrus be damned. I'm speaking with my friend._

Black Iron Tarkus stood six-and-a-half feet tall, an enormous greatsword strapped to his backside, an equally monstrous greatshield laying at his feet near the table. The man was a terrifying sight, but he had a kind heart, and when the people or Lordran first began gathering beneath the Archive's walls, Solaire took a liking to him immediately. "Friend," Solaire greeted as he waded through a cluster of people feasting between the tables. "Praise the sun."

"Praise the sun," Tarkus returned, pulled his helm away from his head to shake out a thick fall of dark hair, and smiled. "Glad to see you in one piece."

"Aye," Solaire agreed. "Same to you, friend."

Tarkus' smile wavered. "It has been... dark times for those of us that remained in the Archives."

"So I hear. Eileen just informed me her _child _has gone missing? I remember a month ago, Miandra's girl vanished. Are the two related you think? What is Logan doing about this?"

Now Tarkus' smile had completely sunk away, only a look of sympathy left on his square-jawed face. "Solaire... it's not just Eileen's boy. There's been eight more gone since Miandra's girl."

"_Eight_?" Solaire echoed incredulously. "That... that can not be."

"It is, friend," Tarkus went on, hushing his voice so it was nearly lost among the great hall's myriad of chatter. "A search went out for them that produced no results. The mothers and fathers... well, they're _angry_, Solaire. Understandably so. They got together and demanded to see Logan, but, well, you know how it is. Logan won't see anyone. That hasn't changed since you left."

Solaire shook his head, his stomach feeling ill. _Children_, he thought. _Of all the terrible cruelties in this world, the ones that befall children are the cruelest. _"This is... dreadful news. Eight children... I cannot begin to fathom the anguish the parents must be experiencing."

Tarkus' eyes flicked across the room, and when they appeared satisfied at what they saw, the big man leaned near to Solaire and took him by the shoulder to whisper, "There's been _more _than eight gone missing now, but... not all went without their parent's knowledge."

Solaire frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Means there are some of us who have taken matters into our own hands since Logan won't," Tarkus went on whispering. "We can talk more another time. The great hall isn't the most secure place to exchange this kind of information."

Solaire pulled away and fixed the man with an angered look. "Logan could help us. You speak as if he's not to be trusted."

Tarkus shook his head. "You ever hear the phrase 'loyal to a fault', my friend? Look around you. The men and women of this castle are _sick _of taking commands from a man who won't even grace them with his presence. We're running out of supplies, friend. And food storages. Who do we turn to about this? Logan won't be seen, and that Petrus fellow... well, he swears hes taking all our complaint to Logan, but... we never hear nothing back."

"_I _will take your complaints," Solaire assured him.

A mirthless smile came upon the big man's face. He clapped Solaire on the shoulder. "I'm sure you will, my friend. I'm sure you will. We'll talk later." And with that, he returned to his seat and began eating once more.

Solaire left him, thinking on what he'd meant by 'some of us have taken matters into our own hands'. It was on those thoughts he was dwelling when a shout came from further down the hall. The knight lifted his head to see a group of men-one he recognized as the bowmen, Reyes-crowded around a table at the very back of the room. When Solaire spotted them, a bald man with a mane of golden whiskers around his chin stood and pointed his way. "Fat man won't take our requests," he shouted across the hall, pointing at Petrus and gathering a wash of attention from the crowded tables around him. "So I'm letting _you _know. Tell Logan we need arrows! The food don't hunt itself!"

A woman's hand reached up from a table and grabbed at Solaire's wrist. "Knight Solaire? Oh you've returned to us! Thank the Gods! Listen, I need Logan to give me access to the restricted section of the library. There are supplies there. We need bandages, splints, ointment-"

"My lady, I'm not sure-"

"Solaire!" Another woman, a short fall of ebony hair tangled about her brow, shouted from a table further down. "You're taking request to Logan?" He opened his mouth to tell her he wasn't sure that was the case, but she plowed on before he could. "You tell him Winniefred Marbella needs to be taken out of the kitchens! That woman is nothing but a pain and I won't work with her no more!"

"Oh, shut up, Gillian!" A shrill voice snapped from across the hall.

"You hold your tongue, Winniefred! You don't do nothin' but slow us down and complain!"

"My ladies," Solaire started in attempt to diffuse the situation.

"Solaire, I need you to take a message to Logan for me," A man at his left said, tugging at his elbow.

"Solaire!" Another shouted and began rambling off a request he could not hear because of the next two men who crowded around him and began asking about some 'hidden storage' of supplies to men their armors.

Three woman were marching across the great hall, defiant, angry, looks burning in their eyes, and they were heading right towards him. "Solaire!" One called, waving. "Knight!"

"Please, everyone," Solaire stammered as their voices drowned his own in their demands. "I can take your requests, but please only one at a time! I-"

"You tell Logan we're sick of watching our friends and family die!" A woman shriek.

"Tell him if he doesn't give us a plan soon," A man beside her growled, sticking a finger in the knight's direction. "He'll be answering to our swords."

"Don't forget about Winniefred!" The woman from earlier shouted, and her friends around her cheered and laughed.

Solaire put a hand to his brow, lowered his head, and stepped quickly around the growing mob. They called after him, but he ignored them and marched through the room, heading for the one partially empty, somewhat _quiet_, corner of the great hall. The shouts followed along beside him, but once he seated himself at a table, they began to wither away. He held there, frozen, until he was sure they'd forgotten about him, then finally lifted his head and breathed a sigh of relief. _I return to a moral that is ten fold worse than what is was when I left, _he thought. _How can Logan expect to _lead _these people in such a state of disarray? _He was pondering that very question when movement beside him caught his eye.

He turned to see a timid-looking woman with a bun of strawberry-blond hair hovering above her head. Solaire hadn't even noticed her sitting there all alone when he'd taken his seat, and when he narrowed his eyes upon her, he realized who it was. "Lady Anastacia?" He asked.

She turned to him, her sharp-featured face wrinkled with just as much anxiety and stress as there had been when he'd departed. Her arms were folded across the dingy robes she wore around her chest, and Solaire saw there was no food on the table before her. _She's a firekeeper, _Chester had once told him. _The flames are her nourishment. _He bowed to the woman. "My lady. It is... good to see you. I hope you are enjoying your stay with us." _How could she be? _he thought immediately. _This place is __chaos._

The woman did not speak or move or show any hint that she'd heard him at all; only stared forth with that same fearful look on her face, as if he were going to strike her. She shifted a bit on her bench and turned her eyes back to the empty table once more.

Solaire tried his hardest to think of some words he could offer the woman to either comfort her or perhaps get her talking, but after awhile he'd come up with none, and so resigned to let her be. He sat there beside her as quietly as she, too worried to eat, and for a long time it was only the two of them and it was peaceful. It was the snickering, masked, fool who interrupted it.

Chester dropped into the bench across the table and folded his gloved hands atop it. "Hello, knight," his voice came muffled from beneath his mask, calm and with that never-wavering hint of amusement to it; as if he were in on the world's greatest joke that no one else was smart enough to understand.

Solaire glared at him. "My apologies, my lady," he spoke to Anastacia, though did not remove his eyes from Chester's. "I did not mean to attract trash such as this to your dinner table."

Chester snickered. "So cruel, knight. So cruel." The dark eyes beneath his mask flicked to Anastacia of Astora and back. "Actually, this 'trash' is here on business. With the _both _of you, as it turns out."

Anastacia beside him, for the first time, lifted her eyes to the man and the slight tightening of her face proved that she was not, in fact, deaf. Still, she spoke no words.

"What business?" Solaire asked, pulling his gaze from her back to the crossbowmen. "Is this some game?"

"No game," Chester went on, lifting his hands as if to show he wasn't hiding anything. "Logan's going to speak with the people shortly. He wants the both of you at his side."

"_Speak _with them!?" Solaire repeated. "I... I'm not sure that is his finest idea. These people... they seem very upset with him. Perhaps if he speak to _me_, and I can relay-"

"No," Chester cut him off. "He's going to address them himself. He wants you at his side in case anyone gets out of hand. He wants _her_... well, I suppose you'll see why he wants her."

A quiet whimper sounded from Anastacia's throat and she clutched her robes to her body more tightly.

"What of his golems?" Solaire asked. "Why doesn't he use _them_?"

"He knows the people don't like them," Chester explained. "It wouldn't be a very wise idea to emerge from the prison tower with an army of nine golems at his side."

"He commands _nine _now!?"

Chester took a breath, letting the knight know he'd grown bored with the conversation. "Look, just get up and follow me out. Can you handle that, knight, or is your armor too heavy to lift off that bench?"

Solaire didn't humor the man with an answer. Instead, he rose, turned to Anastacia beside him, and offered her his hand. "Come, my lady."

She looked at it as if it were a dagger. Her eyes flicked from his hand to his face an she shook her head.

"Logan's not _asking_," Chester said. "You can come on your own, or you can come dragged along behind me. That's your only choice."

"Don't speak to her like that," Solaire snapped. He softened his voice when he turned back to the firekeeper. "Come. I won't hurt you, my lady. I swear to you my protection."

After a long moment's hesitation, she delicately placed her hand in Solaire's and rose from the bench. He smiled, bowed, and gestured for her to fall in beside him. When she timidly moved there, he began walking on, Chester leading them along the far wall of the hall, careful to avoid the clusters of men and women who would surely halt or slow their progress. They made it out, thankfully uninterrupted, and then Chester was walking them down a long, torch-lit, hallway that wound deeper into the castle's interior. As they walked, Solaire pointed out various paintings that decorated the walls, explaining their origins to the best of his ability to the firekeeper at his side. Chester glanced back and rolled his eyes, but the woman seemed at least mildly attentive as he spoke, and so he went on. After a long travel through the Archive's halls, they came upon a small, unfurnished, room; a wooden planks for a floor, stone pillars holding the ceiling above and adorned in candles.

"Abby!" Solaire called upon entering the room.

The girl was standing beside one of the pillars, resting her arm against it. Her cleric armor and heavy coating were gone, replaced with a white, silky, robe that hung loose on her little frame. She stepped forth, barefoot, and her face came into the candle light. Some of the girl's hair was slowly starting to return to her, leaving a loose tangle of brown strands clutching to her brow. Beneath the hair, though, Solaire was disheartened to see Abby's eyes were heavily bagged with dark rims and her usually exuberant smile could only muster half of its former lift as she set it upon him. "My knight," she croaked from a hoarse throat and opened her arms.

He released Anastacia's hand beside him and stepped forth to take hold of her, fearing she might collapse if he did not. "My lady, are you alright?"

"Yes..." She said, pressing her face to his chest and squeezing, but after a moment's hesitation, she whispered, "No," and a quiet sob escaped her lips.

"What's wrong?" Solaire asked, fixing Chester over her shoulder with a shrewd glare. "Has any harm befallen you? Has this scoundrel-"

"No, Solaire, no. Nothing like that," she went on, pulling away from his chest and setting her pretty blue eyes-that were now red and puffy with tears-on him. "It's Quelana... she left me."

"Left you?"

Abby nodded. "I knew she didn't want to stay long... I knew she wanted to get back to her family... I didn't know what else to do, Solaire. I'm not... I'm not sure of anything anymore. I would have went with her if she'd given me the time. I would have..." She sniffled and swiped at her eyes.

"Are you _sure _she's left the Archives?"

"Y-yes... the guard saw her go and..." She took a breath. "She killed a man in her escape."

"I saw her fleeing towards Anor Londo with my own two eyes," Chester added, and when Solaire stared at the man to test his words, he thought he finally understood the mask. _I can't read his honesty, _the knight realized. _Who knows if he speaks lies or truth with that thing guarding every inch of his face._ "A terrible thing to abandon a girl as sweet as Abby."

"I would've gone," Abby said again. "I just wanted to... know if Logan is right... if I don't have to die..."

Solaire wasn't sure what she meant by those words, but simply _speaking _them seemed to bring the girl pain, and so he left the subject alone. Instead, he put a finger to her chin and lifted her head to meet her eyes. "Are you sleeping, my lady?"

"I can't sleep," Abby explained. "They're mad at me. They cast nightmares onto me now."

"Mad at you? _Who's _mad at you?"

Her look drifted from his eyes to stare off into nothing. "All of them. The hollows. The demons. The beasts. The knights. They want me to come to them."

Solaire took a breath, trying to make sense of her words. "Anor Londo? Is that what you speak of, Abby? The army you said was awaiting you in Anor Londo? They're mad at you now?"

Abby's eyes returned to his. "Yes. Very mad. I can't sleep. I'm afraid."

"The nightmares will pass," a deep voice spoke from a hall stretching off the side entrance of the room. "The wicked things only wish to break you, Abby. We will show them. You can not be broken."

Logan came shuffling forth from the shadows, his massive hat wobbling atop his head, his long, tattered, robe dragging along behind him as his feet sounded against the wooden floor. Solaire's mouth fell agape. He hadn't seen Logan outside the damp, dark, confines of the prison tower in a very, very, long time. With the man came an entire change of mood in the atmosphere. He heard Anastacia whimper beside him again, and Chester stood a bit straighter. Even Abby seemed to try and shake some of her sadness free upon seeing the man, releasing Solaire and turning to face him.

"Logan..." Solaire said. "What... I..."

"It is good to see you, my friend," Logan greeted with a nod of his enormous hat. "Praise the sun."

"Praise the sun," Solaire returned, taking a breath and composing himself. "Logan... what are we doing? I'm not sure meeting with the people is the wisest of moves on this day. They don't seem... very happy with the state of things right now."

"Exactly," Logan admitted, still shuffling nearer to the group. "Which is why _now _is the only time to strike."

"Strike?"

Soft laughter rumbled from beneath his hat. "In a sense. Strike them with _hope_. Raise their morale. Give them something to look forward to. We need only a bit more time now. Abby, sweet girl, has seen to that." He reached them and took Abby in his arms. She went without protest, and above her shoulder, Solaire caught a glimpse of Logan's face under his hat brim's shadow. The candle light flickered off it, and for the first time since he'd met him, Solaire thought Logan looked _old_. Wrinkles lined his skin, which had taken on a sallow complexion, and his hair was as dry and brittle looking as old straw; as grey as the wolf they'd picked up in the forest. His eyes lifted to Solaire and looked-

-_red: like a demon's, piercing into your soul, eating your hope._

Solaire gasped, shook his head, and looked again. Logan's eyes appeared nothing like that. They were a pale blue and the sides were lined with crow's feet, sure, but they were a _man's _eyes, not a _demon's_. _What a thought to have_, Solaire told himself, _Perhaps I'm not resting well myself._

"Are you alright, Solaire?" Logan asked, still squeezing Abby close to his body. "You look a bit pale."

"I- ...I'm fine."

"Good," Logan said, released Abby, and fixed her with a smile. "Are _you _ready, sweet girl? That's the more important question."

"Yes," Abby said, though the smile had faded entirely from her face.

"Good, good," he cooed. "Then we should get going to the gardens to prepare." He lifted his eyes to Anastacia at Solaire's side. "What about you, firekeeper. Feel like keeping a fire today?"

Abby turned from Logan immediately and looked to the firekeeper herself. Her eyes scanned the woman with intent curiosity. "You're _her_?" She asked. "Anastacia?"

Anastacia recoiled from the girl, frightened, trying to hide behind Solaire's shoulder.

Abby only stared forth, a wistful little smile coming to her face. "You're beautiful. Actually... you look just like him... why would he want to hurt you?"

A strange look passed between the two that Solaire could not read. Logan watched on as well, letting the moment pass before taking Abby by the hand. "Let us go. We have a show to put on."

The inner garden that was nestled snugly between three, towering, walls of the castle, and the looming mound of crystals hovering above the caves to the West, never grew quite as cold as the rest of Lordran had. Perhaps it was those very walls that shielded it from the biting winds and the heaviest of snowfalls that kept it warmer, but Solaire could not say. He only knew he liked being here, especially when the sun was high in the sky, and what was left of its light and warmth was upon his brow. The five of them walked out of an arched tunnel and into the heart of the gardens; tall trees thick with snowfall standing sentinel all around them as they went. The snow underfoot was much thinner than it had been in the Darkroot woods, and trekking across the stretch of frosted grass and thinning plants was easy-going. They came upon a wooden platform that had, clearly, been recently constructed. Planks of unused wood still rested beside the thing, and as they neared, Solaire saw a short flight of stairs had been erected at its side.

Logan pointed the way and the five of them climbed to the raised platform. Abby brushed snow from her bare feet and Chester kicked his boots beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder. Solaire eyed the man suspiciously before turning to the front of the platform and drinking in the sight of the garden sprawled before him. He could see that great tower of blue and white crystal on the horizon, watching over them like a guardian eye. The pale sun was falling behind it, and the light was playing with the crystal surface in queer ways. He breathed a refreshing pull of cold air before turning from the sight and looking to the platform itself. An unlit bonfire had been constructed at its base, nothing more. He was ready to ask what was happening when the crowd noise caught his attention.

They came streaming out of the castle in thick, clustered, lines. Solaire watched as the men and women and children who'd he'd been feasting with and listening to complain not thirty minutes earlier filed out from the Archives and began spreading across the garden, slowly making their way towards the platform like a dark cloud moving along the white snowfall underfoot. Their numbers had looked small to the knight in the great hall, but here, where they could all be seen in one, large, group, they made an impressive sight once more. Some began pointing there way and whispering to those beside them. Others only stared forth, shrewd and angered looks plastered to their faces. A group of three children began forming snowballs and giggling as they tossed them at one another, but a plump, older, woman hurried forth and snatch up two of their wrists to drag them along. He saw Iron Tarkus, a giant amongst the crowd, moving forward, his black armor in stark contrast against the snow behind him. Eileen and Timothy came wearing the same somber looks they had in the great hall. Petrus was moving beside the crowd, pointing at them, keeping them moving. The knight of thorns and Laurentius were among the last to come sauntering out of the Archives, and Solaire could not help but think of poor Siegmeyer and what Kirk had done to him once again. He looked to Logan, but knew it was not yet the time to bring up the man's murder.

Logan was smiling as he stared out at the people, seemingly unaware of the danger he had entered into. Solaire stood close beside him, one hand resting uneasily on the hilt of his straight sword. "Firekeeper," Logan called over his shoulder. "Light the bonfire and tend to it. Quickly now. They don't seem pleased to see me. Hmmm." Light laughter came from beneath his hat.

_Perhaps he _is _aware of the danger, _Solaire thought, turning to watch Anastacia. She took a lit torch from Chester's gloved hands, knelt beside the bonfire, and whispered some words that Solaire could not make out. Then she thrust the flaming thing forward and the bonfire came alive. Abby stood beside it, staring into the flames, a slight look of trepidation on her pretty face.

"Logan... what _are _we doing here today?" Solaire asked.

"Buying time," Logan said, and added nothing more.

The crowd that had started out disorganized and loud, had been funneled before the platform by Petrus, and now looked like a tight-fitted glove lying before them, only a hush of whispers sounding from their many mouths now. Scowls were on many of their faces, and Solaire found himself wishing Logan _had _perhaps brought his golems along. If the crowd turned on them and became violent... there would be little he could do to save Logan, let _alone_ Abby or Anastacia.

"_Friends_!" Logan called to them, and Solaire was impressed how loud and booming he could make his voice grow, wondering if it was some spell he'd cast clandestine. "Friends, please! Your attention! Your attention, friend! Here!"

Slowly, the crowd quieted until even the whispers came to a halt.

"Welcome," Logan began. "And let me start before going any further with an apology! I know many of you have become restless. Many of you have wondered what it is I've been doing that I've been too busy to see you, speak with you. Well, friends, I've been working very tirelessly on an answer to our problems. Today... I share with you one of the many _solutions _I have come upon."

A wave of curious whispers took the crowd at that, many of them turning to those beside them and fixing perplexed looks upon one another.

"My work is not yet done," Logan went on in that same booming voice. "And, I regret to inform you, I can not share the details of what that work is today."

Now a wave of displeasure was moving across the men and women. They began pointing and shaking their heads and eyeing Logan with suspicions.

"What I _can _do... is this," he explained, turned, and gestured to Abby.

Abby took a deep breath and nodded. She crouched before the bonfire, both Chester and Anastacia beside her looking on intently, and tossed some wood in for kindling. Then she rose and marched across the platform with her head held high, though Solaire could see she, perhaps, was trying to look a bit braver than she felt. She walked right up to Logan and forced a weak-looking smile upon him before turning to the crowd and staring out into them. The crowd was watching with silent interest; Solaire as well. Logan nodded, reached into his robes, and pulled out a dagger. Before Solaire could even question what was happening, he put it to the girls' throat and cut; her blood falling to the snow at her bare feet in a dark line as she collapsed almost instantly to her knees.

"No..." Solaire whispered, a dread befalling his heart.

Some in the crowd gasped, but most only watched on, unimpressed with the display of savagery.

"Behold," Logan said, stepping away from Abby's limp body that had fallen face first to the platform. "I give you _hope, _Lordran. I give you a spot of light in a world gone dark. I give you the true hero this world has awaited for too long, not the farce of a hero delivered to us before. I give you the true, the _only, _Chosen Undead!"

As his words rang across the gardens, Abby's body faded from the platform. Solaire could only watch in stunned silence as the bonfire Anastacia had tended to began flickering and sweltering and _pulsing _and then a great light erupted from within and those atop the platform had to shield their eyes from its aura. When it subsided, Abby had returned to them, her hands and feet and face as decrepit and hollow as a walking corpse. Chester moved quickly beside her and passed something between them, which she promptly knelt and offered to the flames. After another flash, her skin had returned to its former complexion, the life rose back in her eyes, and then she stood before them as if nothing had happened to her at all.

Solaire turned slowly from Abby to the crowd below the platform. They stared forth, many of their mouths hung agape, their eyes wide and brows upturned. The whispers started not long after that, and though many words were being exchanged between the people, one word wrung out over and over. The word was: "_Chosen_".

"Your hero has come to you," Logan spoke to the people, and his voice carried even more powerfully now over their hushed disbelief. "Has come to _me. _And if I cannot save you... she will."

"Chosen..." Eileen, who'd been watching from the front of the crowd, called out and held her hands up. "Can it be? Have you come to save us? To save Lordran?"

Abby bent so her hand could reach the woman's. Their fingers locked and Abby smiled. "I have."

"Chosen..." A man further into the crowd said, speaking the word with a quiet reverence.

"_Chosen_," another added, moving forward.

Soon enough, they were _all _moving forward with their hands outstretched.

Abby, at first, looked a bit frightened, but then Logan was beside her, whispering something in her ear, and the girl gave him a confident nod of her head. She moved to the very front of the platform so that the crowd could lay their hands on her and allowed them to pull her down among them. Men and women pressed forth to glimpse upon her, to touch her, to rub their fingers in her short strands of hair and whisper their hopes. Abby walked deeper amongst them until the crowd had gathered all around her, pressing in on every side. She reached out and touched their hands and smile for them and soon enough, there were tears in her eyes. A woman plowed forth with her child, a girl of no more than four years, and handed her to Abby. Abby looked a bit startled, but she wrapped the child in her arms anyway, her clean white robes draping the young thing's body as Abby laughed. More moved near, eager to have Abby hold their own child. They stared at her, the hope returned to their eyes as they glimpsed the Chosen Undead that could end the great cold... and save Lordran.

Solaire turned to Logan. There was a wide, delighted, smile on the man's face as he watched Abby interact with the crowd that broke to laughter. _You've bought yourself more time, Logan, _Solaire thought, nodding and turning back to watch Abby walk among the crowd, a babe now in her arms, a hearty laugh coming from her mouth as a man lowered himself to kiss at her bare feet. He would've never guessed that _this _was the same crowd from the great hall earlier hat had been so angered and eager to rebel. _You've certainly bought time... but how much of it? And if your machine fails you... will you truly let the girl go? Do you see a future for Lordran that doesn't end within the dungeon of the prison tower? _He faced Logan once more and watched as the man laughed and laughed and laughed.

His thoughts turned to his earlier vision: of the man in the big hat with eyes that were not his own -of red eyes, _demon's _eyes, that pierced into you soul... that stole all of your hope.


	20. Chapter 20

Sen's Fortress towered above the path North; a black, looming, finger of stone that protruded from the treetops around it to point to the pale sky above, as if threatening the Gods themselves. The clouds around it were purple and swollen and raining a soft fall of snow and ice. Lautrec watched them as they swirled and danced, imagining the thunderstorm that would be brewing if the weather hadn't taken such an unnatural turn to cold lately. In Carim, the older knights used to warn that a storm on the day of a new journey was bad luck; an omen that promised poor footing for the horses and poorer combat for the knights atop them. _At least there is no horse to be thrown from, _Lautrec thought, tightening his belt and shaking the morbid thoughts from his head.

Domhnall, Andre, and Sieglinde were clustered around the church steps, gathered to see Benjamin and himself off. Ben, who was bundled up tightly in a heavy brown cloak and a new pair of brown boots (courtesy of the merchant's wares) was standing atop the stone railing that spilled over into the forest below, staring northward towards the fortress the same as Lautrec. He edged forward, pinwheeling his arms to keep his balance from the long fall below. Sieglinde broke from the steps, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled the boy down, scolding him for his recklessness. Lautrec grinned. The two had gotten along like brother and sister in their short time together, and watching them reminded the knight of a simpler time in his life.

Andre pulled Sieglinde away from the boy with a hearty laugh and clapped Ben on the shoulder. "Stay sharp, boy," the blacksmith told him. "And don't waste none of those arrows I made ya, neither."

"No, I won't," Ben answered immediately. He turned to Sieglinde with a playful grin. "You just keep Sieg away from the wine, unless you want the whole Burg coming down on you from the sound of her belching."

The woman's face reddened. "Ben-!" She started, thought better of it, and moved to grab him instead. Ben laughed and sidestepped her attack, retreating back towards the church as she gave chase, laughing herself a bit.

Domhnall stepped aside so the two could go rushing off into the church, watching after them with a wistful smile, but when he situated himself again, the smile faded and he turned his eyes on Lautrec. "Knight... a word?"

"I'm not stopping you," Lautrec said, kneeling to tie the lace of his boot that had loosened; he had ditched the last of his golden armor-leaving it, with warning, in the hands of the merchant-and was instead garnished in dark leathers and woolen underclothes to stay warm.

"Eh... Andre? Could I, um, speak with him alone?" Dom asked, running a hand through his fall of shabby red hair.

"Aye," the smith said and turned to follow Ben and Sieglinde's warpath inside.

Lautrec had just finished lacing his boot when Domhnall's shadow fell over him. He rose to face the man and furrowed his brow, pulling his new gloves a bit tighter to his wrist. "Speak your piece, merchant."

Dom bit at his lip and lowered his gaze to his own boots. "Um... I guess this is it then, huh?"

Lautrec cast a shrewd look upon the man before him. "Clearly you have something to say, Domhnall. So say it."

Dom looked back up at him. "Lautrec... I know Andre and Sieg think killing Logan is the most important thing in the world right now. Saving the children, too. And they _are _important, certainly. Sieg also wants her father found. Ben... the kid's probably just looking for some adventure to be had. If I had to guess... I'd say _you _are most intent on finding Anastacia of Astora, and... settling your debt."

The merchant let the words linger there, apparently awaiting a response. Lautrec did not give him one, only held his eyes darkly on the man, awaiting whatever was to come next.

"But you _must _realize," Domhnall went on, "that all of this is for nothing if harm should befall Abby. If she lives, and I'm nearly certain she does, you _must _make it your priority to see her safe. To take her away from the Archives if she's there... even if it is against the girl's will."

Lautrec's frown deepened. "_If _the girl does, in fact, live... why would-"

"Logan is a very persuasive man," Domhnall interjected. "He has methods of... turning the mind on to things in a very alluring way. That not only goes for the girl, but for _you _as well. Heed my warning, knight: if you should come across Logan, kill him immediately. Don't let him talk. Just... just end it, alright?"

"Logan has no power over _me_," Lautrec snapped, tiring of the conversation.

"He will _use _that hubris of yours against you, Lautrec, trust me. I've seen strong-willed men fall under his spell as simply as a child. Merely being in his _presence_ is like being slightly detached from the world... like... like living in a waking dream."

"You speak as if you were regular old pals with the man... and yet _you _stand here in defiance of him," Lautrec pointed out, narrowing his eyes on the merchant. "And you suggest that _I _cannot?"

"You have anger in your heart, knight," Domhnall persisted. "He will sniff that out and use it. Please. Don't speak with him. Just _kill _the madman."

Lautrec sighed and began double-checking his shotels nestled in their sheaths at his hip. "I make no promises."

Dom's hand reached out and took hold of his arm, yanking at it to pull his gaze back. "This is no matter to take lightly_, _knight. For Abby's sake... for _Lordran's _sake... save the girl and kill the madman and be done with it."

Lautrec's eyes moved from Dom's face to the hand gripped around his upper arm. "Perhaps you think us better friends than we are, merchant," he said, injecting just a bit of menace into his voice as he glared at the man. "Just because we've shared meals and laughs over the last few days doesn't mean I won't hurt you. It would be wise to remove your hand."

Some of the anger melted from Domhnall's face and he swallowed as his grip came loose. "...and you're a _cold _man..." he said in a quiet voice. "...Logan will use that against you too."

"Enough about Logan," Lautrec said, shouldering past the man to stand before the path North; the path to the fortress. "Go get the boy. I'm ready to leave."

The five of them said their goodbyes there on the church steps a few moments later, Ben and Sieg hugging, Lautrec and Andre shaking hands, and Domhnall watching with his arms folded and an anxious look plastered to his face. Ben fell in line beside Lautrec, who gave him a nod, and then they were off; the boy turning back one last time before they descended the stairs leading down and out of the Parish to wave farewell. They were halfway to the big building that housed Andre's former smithing quarters when Ben quietly said, "Sieglinde begged me to remind you about her father."

"They all want something, don't they," Lautrec answered, and to that, Ben had no reply.

The smith's quarters were as empty and abandoned as they'd been during the many passings the boy and himself had made before and after hunts. The wood floors and steps made hollow, bouncing, sounds of their footsteps off the high ceiling, but then they were quickly on the middle-tiered level and stepping back out into the cold, to the long, stone, bridge that pointed North.

Sen's Fortress stood before them, waiting. The stone monster loomed up into the sky like some ancient beast; its towers climbing up around it in tight clusters, its gaping entrance a dark, chilling, thing peering into its belly. Snow whipped around the fortress, and when the icy winds picked up, the swirling display of white washed away the very top levels of the structure, cutting it in half, yet somehow painting it even moreominous.

Ben walked forward a bit and craned his neck back to take in the sight of it. "Geeze... It's so big. It's... terrifying."

"Come," Lautrec said, nudging the boy in the back to get him moving again. "Standing here won't make it any less frightening."

They pulled up their cloaks to shield their necks and faces from the biting winds that raked the long, stone, bridge leading up to the fortresses entrance, moving as quickly as they could with their shoulders lowered and their boots trudging through the heavy snow underfoot. The bridge was, thankfully, not very long and soon enough Lautrec lifted his eyes and found they'd made it before the stairs leading in. Ben's head was still lowered when his foot caught the first step, and he tumbled down to the snow with a yelp. Lautrec bent forward, snatched up his elbow, and pulled the boy to his feet to lead him inside.

They crossed beneath the half-drawn portcullis whose metal teeth loomed overhead, threatening to chomp down upon them, and the winds dyed off immediately, leaving them in a suffocating silence. The fortresses' front chamber was a wide room with stone pillars, a few shattered pots, and little else. Lautrec crouched to shake the snow free from the bottom of his boots as Ben stepped forth, eyeing the walls and ceiling with a look of wonder upon his face. "This is it then... Sen's Fortress?"

"That's right."

"And you know the way up? You've been here before?"

"Yes," Lautrec said, and after a moment's thought, added, "In another life." Ben raised an eyebrow at that, but Lautrec ignored it and rose back to his feet, pointing forward. "The fortress is, actually, fairly straight forward. We can reach the top before dawn if the Gods are good."

Ben nodded, looking up at the ceiling again. "And what if we run into this 'Havel the Rock'? I've never heard of him, but you seem to know a good bit about him. What should I know?"

_That if we _do _run into him, _Lautrec thought, _it likely means our lives. _"He's a big man," he said instead, "with heavy armor and a heavier shield. Hell of a thing to penetrate. He likes to swing around a dragon's tooth. You ever seen one?"

"No."

"Well... it looks like what it sounds like," Lautrec went on. "If he takes you below the waist with the thing, you'll never walk again. Above the waist and your ribs will shatter. Higher than _that_... you'll likely lose your head."

The boy's mouth had fallen agape, his eyes frozen wide apprehensively. "Well that... sounds _bad._ What are we supposed to do if we have to fight him when every _hit _of his weapon can break us in two!?"

"Don't get hit," Lautrec said and gestured for Ben to follow as he walked deeper into the fortress.

The main chamber of Sen's Fortress was, by far, the most breathtaking. The walls stretched up to form a narrow canyon of stone, the top of which spilled out to the cold world outside, the bottomending in a pool of filthy water and bones and rats. Lautrec stepped before it with Ben awestruck at his side. The thin walkway that cut across the length of the room awaited them. It usually housed enormous blades that swung overhead, five-ton iron guillotines looking to split anyone foolish enough to misstep beneath them in two, but now they lay dormant, their hulking bodies of metal cluttering the path as if in barricade.

As Lautrec walked forth to examine the things, Benjamin spoke over his shoulder, "It's so quiet in here."

"Without the traps running it is," Lautrec agreed, stepping out onto the walkway and kneeling to run his hand along the first guillotine. "There's enough room to crawl under," he told Ben, pointing to the narrow gap beneath the massive blade. "The things are still sharp, though. I wouldn't try to stand too quickly or you're like to cut yourself in half."

Ben nodded, stepping to the edge of the walkway and breathing warm breath into his cupped hands.

"Follow close behind me."

Lautrec began lowering to his belly when Ben called to him, "Lautrec..." He froze and turned back to the boy. "I just... I wanted to say thanks. For, you know... not leaving me this time."

"I'm not paying you a favor, boy. I need your help."

"I know," Ben went on. "But... I don't know. You've taught me a lot of stuff over the last few days with hunting and skinning and correcting the flaws in my archery and everything. I haven't felt this good in a long time. So, I guess, just... thanks."

"That's what worries me," Lautrec muttered and began lowering to his belly again.

"You said that before," Ben halted him again. "What does that _mean_? Is there something you're not telling me?"

Lautrec turned to the boy once more. Ben's face was dark in the shadowy blanket of the fortress walls, his beard still lightly dusted with frost, his brow furrowed shrewdly. _He's close enough to a man to know the truth of it, _Lautrec thought with a sigh. "The witch... the witch had a theory."

"Quelana?"

His thoughts turned briefly to her face, pale and sharp-featured and beautiful. "Yes. She thought that maybe since you and Abby are both Chosen Undead who came to Lordran at the same time, that perhaps... perhaps you are _linked_."

"Linked?" Ben echoed, stepping forward. "What does that mean?"

"I've thought a bit on it since she told me that day. I believe she's right. The two of you... you share more than just being Chosen. You _look _similar. You must be close to the same age. There are similarities in your personalities and your mannerisms. Even your _names_ have an odd duality to them. Abby and Benjamin: 'A' and 'B'? It's as if the Gods sent us a _choice_ to Lordran instead of simply a way."

Ben frowned, bemused. "So... what does my health have to do with any of that?"

"The witch _also _thought that perhaps you two are joined in a sort of pulley system. As in, when one of you grows stronger, the other weakens. Her theory proved true at the start of this mad journey, when you two were together. You were terribly sick those first few nights out of the Asylum when the girl was lively and exuberant and growing strong with pyromancy. And now... _your _strength is flourishing. It makes me wonder... makes me wonder what has become of the girl."

Ben was quiet then for a while, his hands rubbing at his beard, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Finally, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

"Does it change anything?" Lautrec asked.

Ben thought on it, shrugged, and answered, "No."

"Then what does it matter? We are-"

A scream came thundering up from somewhere deep in the fortress, so thick with pain and anguish and terror, it crackled with distortion. It was shrill and it was deep. It was human and it was inhuman. It was everywhere... and it was nowhere.

Ben was trembling where he stood. Lautrec's breath was caught in his chest, his own heart pounding in his ears as the haunting noise played in his memory on repeat. Then- something exploded, a deep rumbling tremor coursing through the entire fortress.

"We turn back," Ben whispered, eyeing the doorway they'd come from. "W-we go b-back, Lautrec. We can still go back. We'll come another day. We-"

"Shut up," Lautrec snapped, listening for movement. He could heard the distant _thumps _of heavy footsteps marching through the fortress. They seemed to be wrapping around a staircase, or perhaps moving in a circle. He closed his eyes and followed them, above, then to the side, then above again. Finally, he listened as they moved to the opposite end of the chamber; the chamber that they were currently in. "Lay down on your stomach. _Slow_."

"What?"

"Right now. Do it."

Ben's face had turned as white as the snow in his beard, but he listened. He knelt and extended two, shaking, arms to the stone floor, lowering himself until his chin was pressed against it. Lautrec had done the same, angling his body so that he could peer beneath the hanging guillotines and stare down the narrow bridge leading to the opposite end of the chamber. Boots appeared in a dark doorway there, grey and steel and heavy.

"What do you see?" Ben whispered.

Instead of answering, Lautrec held up a fist to silence the boy. The boots hesitated only slightly in the doorway and then began stalking forth onto the bridge - heading their way. "Curse the Gods," Lautrec muttered and slowly moved a hand to the hilt of one of his shotels. The boots _thump - thump -thumped _along the bridge before coming to a sudden halt. Lautrec held his breath, watching them in complete silence.

A faint whimper came from the boot owner's direction. The sound was followed by a grunt and then another quake of an explosion. Lautrec watched as part of the bridge was swept clean away by the arching path of a dragon tooth's swing; massive chunks of stone sailing loose and raining down to the murky waters below to land in disorganized _plops_ amidst the waters. _Havel, _Lautrec thought. _He's as mad as they say. _Havel whimpered, as if in pain, and stomped his booted feet atop the walkway, turning in a semi-circle to his left, then to his right. He made a sound that may have been an attempt at a scream, but choked it off before it truly began, turned on his heel, and made a mad sprint back the way he'd come from. Lautrec listened as his _thumping _bounded through the fortress, trailing, thankfully, away from them.

"What in Izalith was _wrong _with him?" Ben whispered when the footsteps faded entirely.

"A madman is a madman," Lautrec said. "Tis a waste trying to decipher their ways. Come on."

"Come _on_!?" Ben snapped. "Are _you _mad as well? We have to turn back, Lautrec! We-"

"-don't have as much time as you think," Lautrec finished for the boy, and without waiting for further conversation, lowered to his stomach and began worming his way forward beneath the first guillotine.

The going was slow, both because of the row of guillotines that needed to be crawled beneath as well as the periodic pauses Lautrec made them take when he thought he heard Havel's thundering footsteps storming back their way. They came upon the missing sect of bridge a bit past the halfway point and had to stand to hop across it; the plunge to the water, and their likely deaths, below awaiting a misstep greedily. The arduous trek to the other end of the chamber went thankfully unplagued by Havel's return. When they were across, the winding stone halls and stairs of the fortress awaiting them beneath an arched passage, Lautrec stood and helped Ben to his feet behind him. The boy's face had lost all of its early-morning daring now that they stood together in the lion's den, the threat of death around every turn as real as the noses upon their faces. Lautrec grinned. "Bit different being _on _an adventure than simply reading about one, isn't it?"

Ben had ignored him, opting instead to stare warily around the chamber they'd passed through, clutching to his dagger's hilt at his hip. "If that thing charges us _here_..."

"There will be no retreat and no room to maneuver," Lautrec confirmed. "So let's be on our way."

They followed the dark hall around a bend and up a flight of stairs that spilled to another bridge, although this one was much shorter than the first. It was lined with guillotines, like its longer twin below, and the two of them had to drop and crawl once more.

"Where did that madman go?" Ben whispered as they crawled. "This seems to be the only way forward. We would've seen him if he crossed here."

"Even _I _don't know every secret this place holds," Lautrec admitted as they neared the end of the bridge. "There's likely hidden passageways."

The room beyond was small and tight with only two, visible, entrances coming and going, and so Lautrec halted the boy and took a moment to orient himself. He could still visualize the climb, the bridges and walkways, the bolder traps and elevators. If everything was shut down, they could make good time. Ben's breath was coming loudly from the boys mouth as he paced anxiously about the room. He moved to an empty chest at the far wall's center and prodded it with his boot. "Who would leave treasure _here_?"

"It was bait for a trap," Lautrec said, pointing to the hole in the wall directly above the emptied chest.

Ben winced and sidestepped quickly from the hole's trajectory. He moved near to the indentation and traced the rim of it with his finger before moving on to a cluster of statues gathered in the corner of the room.

"I know these guys," he said. "They're modeled after the knights of Anor Londo. There were pictures in our history books."

"I think I know the quickest way," Lautrec said, nodding. "Come on. If I remember correctly there's a shortcut..." His words lingered and fell away when he caught the oddest sight in his periphery. He turned to face Ben and narrowed his eyes on the boy's shoulders, where a strange, liquidy, ooze was sliding off the boy's cloak mantle.

Ben noticed him staring and frowned. "What?"

Another drop landed beside the first. Lautrec traced its origin upwards, to the rafters of the room. In the corner, hunched down in a shadowy nook, Havel was watching them. Lautrec saw, with horror, that his helmet was off and that his eyes were missing; gouged clean out of their sockets, leaving two, scarred, patches of flesh in their place. The man's mouth was twisted into a maniacal grin, drool dripping from the corner to fall to Ben's shoulder directly below. Beneath his heavy breaths, he giggled: a madman's giggle, soft and uncertain and anguished.

"Cross the room," Lautrec croaked from his suddenly-dry throat and gestured Ben forth. "Cross right now. Right _now_."

Ben, too young and too inexperienced to obey, turned his head back to follow Lautrec's stare.

Havel pounced.

The room came alive with the heavy landing of the man's feet driving into the ground. Ben had rolled forward at the last moment, Havel's greatshield nearly taking off his head in the process. Ben scrambled forth to his feet and Lautrec wasted no time grabbing and shoving him through the nearby doorway. Havel screamed, pulled up his dragon's tooth, and wrenched it back over his shoulder. Lautrec did not stick around for the rest.

He had only just dashed outside the room when the wall behind him shattered apart like a pane of glass, chunks of stone rocketing past his shoulder in an explosion of chaos. One chunk clipped his shoulder, but his adrenaline was pumping too hard to feel the blow. Instead, he lurched forward to snatch up Ben's arm and pointed the way up a long, steep, inclination that would lead-if memory served him correct-to the boulder room. "Go! There! _Now_!" Lautrec barked, and this time Ben did not hesitate: he ran, scrambling down a short flight of stairs to leap up and climb to the inclination. Lautrec stole a glance back towards the room and saw Havel peering out from the hole he'd birthed in the wall with a twisted smile on his face, his blind eyes scrunched together in a rage. He charged forth.

Lautrec, out of time, leapt the gap down to the inclinations base. Ben had already climbed it, and when he landed, the boy's hand was extended and ready to aid him. Lautrec took it, allowed himself to be pulled upwards, and broke to a sprint as the _THUD _of Havel landing behind them bellowed into the curved walls. The man screamed, something exploded, and then his _thumps _were giving chase.

Ben, younger and more agile, outpaced him up the inclination. By the time Lautrec had caught up with him at its top, he was red-faced and panting, but he had gotten it right: they were in the boulder room. "There!" Lautrec shouted, pointing out a narrow passage in the room's corner. Ben nodded and hurried off. Lautrec rested his hands on his knees to catch his breath and watched as Havel made the climb up towards them. _Fight him here, _a voice told him. _The man wears no helmet. Fight him here and take the mad head off of his mad shoulders. _He reached for his shotels.

"_ARGH!_" Ben's scream wailed from the passage Lautrec had just sent him down.

"_ARRGHUAAAAHEEE!_" Havel screeched, possibly trying to mimic the boy's pain, and his mad smile widened as he bounded forward with even more haste.

Lautrec released his shotels and darted off to see what had become of the boy. He found Ben in the next room, a crossbow bolt protruding from his left arm as he pressed against the wall, sucking air through his grit teeth and grasping at his wound. Lautrec didn't need to ask what had happened. His eyes moved to the opposite wall, where another hole was etched, a trap that was, apparently, still active.

"We have to keep moving," Lautrec told him.

Ben pushed off the wall, wincing with the effort, but nodding his head in agreement. "Right."

The doorway they'd passed beneath splintered apart as Havel's dragon's tooth drove across it, crumbling the stone foundation around its trim and busting up the wall beside it. Lautrec grabbed the boy's unwounded arm and pulled him along in a sprint. The fortress halls wrapped and wound and eventually spilled them out to another bridge. Massive guillotines like the ones from downstairs swung back and forth overhead, still in operation, and Lautrec cursed as he pulled Ben to a halt before them. "Alright, watch me. Do as I do," he said, stepped to the edge of the bridge, and waited.

_Swing_, the guillotines came rushing by, a chilly sweep of air accompanying them.

_Swing_, they came a second time, the short gap to cross beneath them clear to Lautrec.

_Swing_, they came a third time and he kicked off his heel, dashing as fast as he could to the far end of the bridge.

He made it just in time to feel that cold air brush the back of his neck. He turned, catching his breath, and signaled Ben to do the same.

Ben stepped forward as confident as the the boy could clearly muster and eyed the guillotines, his hand still pressed to his wounded arm. He watched as they came once, twice, and-

-before the third time came, Havel appeared behind him, dragon's tooth clutched in his raised arms above his head. Ben looked back, yelped, and stumbled forth onto the bridge. _He's dead, _Lautrec thought. But the boy lived. He tumbled to his hands and knees, but _between _two of the swinging guillotines. He was _just _thin enough to stand before they took him in two and wobble forth on shaky knees to pass by the next two. He nearly walked right into the last blade, but caught himself on the tips of his toes, losing his balance and spilling forth just as the blade was making its return trip to end his life. Lautrec caught him and shoved him against the wall to still him.

"Your bow," he commanded.

Ben looked puzzled for only a moment before he reached around and yanked the bow from his back. Lautrec took it and shouldered it immediately, eyeing the far end of the bridge where Havel had stepped to and was now glaring across the path hatefully from the blind pits of his eyes.

"Arrows," Lautrec demanded calmly.

Ben ripped his quiver loose and handed it over. Lautrec fasted it to his belt.

"Follow those stairs up and around the bend. There is another bridge. Take it and go right at its end. That will take you outside. Wait for me there." Ben opened his mouth, but Lautrec anticipated him and hastily repeated, "_Wait for me there. Now!_"

Ben took off running.

Lautrec pulled an arrow from the quiver and nocked the bow at his shoulders, drawing the line tight and taking a deep breath to still his aim. Havel was hopping from foot to foot, licking at his lips, running his fingers along his weapon as if it were his lover. He whimpered then giggled then screamed then whimpered again; the cycle of a man with no sanity left to him. Lautrec took aim at his unarmored head, awaited the guillotines gap, and loosed.

The arrow crossed the bridge clean, but Havel intercepted it with his greatshield at the other end.

Lautrec cursed and nocked again. _Is he blind or not? It's impossible to tell. _He was ready to loose again when Havel roared a warcry, wrenched back his weapon, and swung it forth with such force, Lautrec felt the gust of wind all the way across the bridge. The dragon's tooth collided with one of the guillotines and the thing screeched as metal bent and twisted and then something snapped. Lautrec watched, mouth agape, as the entire blade went sailing off its hinge, plunging to the fortresses' lower levels below.

One less guillotine to worry about, Havel crept forward from the darkness behind him; his tongue lolling about madly in his mouth as he fixed the next trap with his weapon's aim.

Lautrec loosed the arrow on the off chance it would hit, it didn't, and he dashed off to follow after Ben. The path was, as he remembered, straight forward, and soon enough he had come upon the final bridge of the fortresses' inner chambers. The guillotines here were as dormant and still as the ones on the ground level, and as Lautrec scrambled forth, he slid to his belly and crawled as quickly as he could beneath the first one before standing and breaking into a sprint up to the next.

It was as he was lowering to crawl beneath the second trap when Havel's scream of despair and contempt thundered into the room behind him. He stole a glance back and saw the man rushing forth. He came upon the first guillotine, cocked back his dragon's tooth, and _smashed _the thing out of his way with such velocity, it sailed into the far wall and _stuck _there upon impact. Lautrec clawed his way forth, inching beneath the guillotine, and eyeing down the next. He was halfway there when the room exploded with sound and he heard the trap he'd just passed beneath shatter and bend. Havel roared once more and his thumping footsteps rumbled forward.

Lautrec dove for the final guillotine, his chin painfully colliding with the stone bridge beneath it as he landed, and scrambled desperately forward to escape the madman coming up fast behind him. The trap wailed in twisting, breaking, collision as Havel smashed it to bits while Lautrec was still beneath it. Lautrec rose and stumbled forward, feeling the dragon's tooth clipping at his heels. He rounded on the corner, seeing the light of day awaiting him up a flight of stairs, and stumbled.

He collapsed to the floor, the toe of his boot tangled with the edge of the bridge, and landed hard on his bad shoulder. His head smacked the stone floor and the face of a beautiful woman appeared briefly before him, one moment it was Anastacia, the next Quelana, the next Abby, and finally - it was Havel.

The mad man loomed above him, the blind sockets of his eyes fixed down upon Lautrec with twisted delight. He chomped at his teeth, as if biting some unseen stalk of contempt. He shook out his thinning hair and giggled, smiled, whimpered, screamed, screamed, _screamed_.

Lautrec dug backwards on his elbows to escape the man, but his world had gone fuzzy from his head's collision, and whatever injuries he'd sustained when he'd been thrown from that bridge so long ago had reawakened with a vengeance. He could barely move.

"_AAAAARGH!_" Havel wailed, raising a hand to claw at his own eye as he moved forth, the dragon's tooth clutched impressively in one hand.

"What did Logan do to you...?" Lautrec whispered, letting himself fall to the stone floor in defeat.

Havel punched at his own chest, whimpered, and took up the dragon's tooth in a two-handed grip. He cocked his head sideways and drool onto his own neck.

_It is a good end, _Lautrec thought, resting his head to the floor. _An end in combat is all a knight could ever truly ask for. Ana... I'm sorry. _Though when his head laid back, he felt the floor beneath it shift slightly under his weight. He frowned and turned, his eyes scanning over the slightly raised indentation of floor beneath him.

Havel stepped forward to crush his skull-

-and Lautrec pounded the floor beside his head with his fist.

A trap, still active like the one below, sounded, and an array of crossbow bolts sailed out from a nearby hole in the wall. Havel's back arched as the three attacks took him in quick succession in the rear. He screamed a confused, hateful, sound and turned slightly to face this unknown assailant. Lautrec used the brief window to grab the hilts of his shotels and yank them free. He leaned forward and hooked the two curved blades around Havel's massive ankle, forming a cuff-like hold on the man's leg. Havel turned back to scream at him, but Lautrec dug into the floor with his legs and _ripped _as hard as he could. Havel's armor was too thick to penetrate, so instead of taking the foot off, his leg came up as if he'd been tripped, and the man's arms pinwheeled to regain his balance.

Lautrec wailed a warcry of his own, forcing himself to clamber to his feet, ignoring the injuries screaming at him from his body and head, and pulled one of Ben's arrows free from its sheath. Havel's mad, blind, eyes landed upon his and the man's balance returned to him.

Lautrec drove the arrow up through Havel's throat. It pierced the soft flesh there, a spray of bright, red, blood spilling loose immediately, and came popping out beside the man's nose. Havel's mouth moved up and down like a fish's, his eye sockets shook with what might have been fear, and then he made a chocked, gurgling sound and went limp.

He fell to the floor, dead, and rolled off the edge to spill the two-hundred foot drop down to the base of Sen's Fortress, where he came to a satisfying _plop_ in the waters below.

Lautrec bent, snatched up his shotels, and sheathed them. He leaned out over the edge and stared into the dark abyss below. _Rest now Havel the Rock_. He spat, clutched to his wounded shoulder, and limped out of Sen's Fortress.

The day's light outside was so blindingly bright, Lautrec had to shield his eyes as he stepped into the cold snowfall and howling winds that wrapped the fortresses' rooftop. "_Ben_?" He called, but no answer came. _Curse the Gods what now?_ he thought and rounded the corner to climb a short flight of stairs.

At the top, he made it two steps forward before movement caught his eye. He halted, lifted his head-hand still hovering atop his brow for shade-and squinted forth to the raised section of roof before him.

Ben was there on his knees, a gag in his mouth, a dagger held to his throat.

Holding the dagger was Patches, and crowded around him on either side were two fat men in heavy plate armor and a grinning woman with bright red pigtails. She held a bow shouldered before her, an arrow nocked and pointed at Lautrec.

_Patches lives, _Lautrec thought bitterly, raising his arms skyward in surrender. _And now the Hyena has gathered himself a pack._

_ ...how unfortunate._


	21. Chapter 21

The darkness was comforting, and in a way, Quelana felt closer to home than she'd been in a long time. The tunnels burrowing through, what she assumed was, the Duke's Archives were a black tangle of passages, some leading up slopes, some curving around bends and twists, some coming to dead ends, and yet others opening up to branch off to even _more _tunnels. If if wasn't for her pyromancy, the way would be as black as charred rock, and she would likely never find her way out, but her flames provided enough light to guide her feet. She held her hand outstretched before her, commanding her fire to leap from the tips of her fingers and show her the way as she walked; ever deeper into whatever strange passage the men she'd burned had brought her to.

They had given pursuit for a while, but they were many and she was one and soon enough she outpaced them, listening as their voices became distant chatter fading away behind her and then it was only her and the darkness and the quiet _hum _of her pyromancy's burning flames. She had had enough time to consider _why, _exactly, they had taken her in the first place, deciding that it must have been to remove her from Abby. She could only hope now that the girl was safe, and that Quelana would find her way back to her. _Before it's too late_, she thought, stepping carefully around a sharp turn in the tunnel.

She came to a short bridge, cool water gushing down from the vented walls, around it and a 'T' intersection on the far side. Quelana crossed, letting her fingers graze the water beside her, and halted. She surveyed the two paths. _Where were they taking me? _She wondered. _Clearly they wanted me alive or they would have cut my throat as I slept. So _where _did they want to stash me? _The two passages, as many of the passages had before them, looked identical. Quelana shook the sleeve from her wrist and held up a hand, commanding a thin stream of flame straight up from her index finger. It rose and wavered, shuddering to the left. She quelled it and went right, tracing the origin of the faint wind that carried through the dark.

Quelana walked on like that for quite a while, repeating her small pillar of flame at every intersection she came across. The tunnels were markedly the same, save for the flow of air that pushed her fire more severely in one direction at each crossing, and after a half dozen more turns, she was convinced she was nearing the end of... well, whatever the tunnel ended _in_.

The end turned out to be a steep drop into a black, gaping, hole that came so abruptly after one final turn, Quelana nearly walked right into it. She gasped and pulled her foot back at the last moment, her heel sliding out on a smattering of pebbles. They rolled off the edge and plummeted into the hole, clicking and clacking off the curved walls as they fell. If there was a bottom, she did not hear them land against it. She sighed and ignited her pyromancy just enough to cast the upper rim of the hole aglow. She leaned forth and peered into it, then raised her gaze upwards. There, protruding from the wall and shining against her fire, a ladder rung awaited. Quelana frowned and sent a lick of flame upwards. It rose, revealing a whole row of rungs leading upwards.

_What madness is this? _she thought as the flames dyed away and the blackness returned. _Who would set a ladder above such a drop? It would be suicide to... _That's when she had it. The ladder was never meant to be _taken _in descent. It was a trap. The only safe passage was to climb it from where she stood. Quelana took a breath, lit a flame to light the way once more, and reached forth. Her hand found the rung, the pale knuckles fading to an ever fairer shade as she gripped it tightly, and pushed off the ground.

For one, dizzying, moment she hovered there suspended above a drop that could very well drop for an eternity. Then her free hand found the rung beside her first and she took a firm hold of it. Her legs and feet dangled beneath her until she planted them into the wall and wrestled her way upwards, grasping at the next higher rung above. Soon enough, her boots landed on the first rung, and then the ascent was easy-going.

She climbed in the darkness, too afraid to loose a hand and cast a flame to light her path, for a long time, and as she rose, she could feel a cool air pressing against her brow, and the distant sounds of _thumping _rumbling into the walls. Her hands moistened with a cold sweat and her breath grew shallow and Quelana realized she was terrified of whatever awaited her. The dark had slipped around her like an old friend, and it would be difficult to cast it aside one again. _You will not flee, _she told herself. _You will not abandon Abby as you did your sisters. Not ever._

Her hand reached upwards and the knuckles rapped against something cold and smooth and Quelana halted: she'd come to the end. She got a firm stance on the ladder and leaned her back against the wall behind her before removing her other hand and planting it beside the first. She shoved upwards, grunting with exertion. For a moment, nothing happened and Quelana's heart fluttered madly in her chest at the thought of another dead end, then something clicked loose, like a stiff joint freeing in its socket, and the stone beneath her hands shifted.

A rush of cold, but wonderfully fresh, air raked past her and Quelana pulled a deep breath of it, closing her eyes and forcing herself calm. The stone above slid back on its own, as if pulled by some hidden mechanism, and Quelana cast her gaze upwards, where a pale blue light was bathing whatever room awaited in a soft, cool, glow. With little else left to do, and a stubborn determination not to turn back, she climbed out.

The room above was small and unused, chipped stone walls, a low-hanging and undecorated ceiling, and a stack of barrels all around the secret hatch she'd climbed out of were all that greeted her. Quelana wrapped her arms around her body, settling in to the new, much more _open_, surroundings, and glanced back to the hatch. She knelt to slide it close, but as her hand grazed it, it slid shut on its own, the ground around it growling with the effort. It closed with a definitive _slam_, and Quelana felt another wave of trepidation come across her; she doubted she could go back now. _I am a strong flame, _she told herself, a saying her sisters had taught her when she was very young. _A strong flame does not waver._

The first thing Quelana did was strip herself free from the cumbersome human clothing the knight Lautrec had forced upon her. It was heavy and restrictive, the boots loud and clumsy, and she was happy to rid herself of them, stashing them neatly behind one of the barrels. She had kept her robes, the thin, loose things that they were, tucked away beneath the lace of one of the boots, and slipping it back around her slender frame and flipping the hood over her head was even more comforting than the darkness below had been.

She stalked forth towards the bend in the small room, her bare feet pressing as silently as raindrops on the cool stone floor, and wrapped herself to the wall, coalescing with the shadows there and taking great relief in the sense that she could move and hide once more as she once had in Blighttown.

The room ended right around the bend in a section of wall that had been removed. In its place, long and thick steel bars drove from the ceiling to the floor, barring the room off and leaving only a small, arched, door as passage. _A prison, _Quelana thought. _I've led myself right into a prison. _She hurried forth and laid a hand upon the door. When she gave it a gentle push, it swung easily back on its rusted hinges and Quelana breathed easy again.

Outside the cell, a room so enormous and maddeningly encompassing, Quelana stumbled back inside gripping at her throat. She composed herself and stole another glance through the barred wall. She'd never seen anything quite like it: the room was no room, it was a massive chamber of curved walls, perhaps the inner spiral of some giant tower, and it stretched upwards so high, she could not see the top from inside the cell. The blue light she'd spotted from the tunnels came from torches hung in sconces along the humongous walls, their flame glowing a queer, icy, color instead of the red and orange she was accustomed to. Directly outside the room, a spiraling, wide-set, fall of stairs were wrapping their way downwards, where Quelana could hear those _thumps _that were sounding underground seemed to originate from.

_What mad world have I stumbled upon? _she wondered, glancing apprehensively around the outside of the bars. _Was this where those men were taking me? _She knew she had to venture outside, as difficult as it seemed, and she had just collected the courage to do so when approaching voices froze her feet in place. Quelana gasped, grabbed at the partially-ajar cell door, and gently pulled it closed. She lowered herself to the ground and pressed against the wall, incredibly thankful she'd changed back into her robes.

The voices came drifting upwards from the spiraling staircase, and Quelana thought they sounded queerly flat, as if the walls around them carried no echo. She stilled her breath and kept motionless, listening.

"-her tongue," one of them said, the words just barely audible as whomever it was neared; he was most certainly male, though. "What's the point? Heh."

"Well, we all have our purpose in the end, I suppose," a second male voice spoke, deeper, and now drawn near enough to be heard clearly.

"Purpose... what does that word really _mean _when we're facing the end of all things?"

"Logan won't let things end."

"He'll certainly _try_. What then, though? What if he succeeds? How do we soldier forth after what we've seen... what we've _done_?"

The men crossed right before the cell door. Quelana pressed her lips tightly together and watched from the shadows as they walked. The one nearer to the wall was thin and tall, and the top hat resting just a tad off-center on his head made his identity clear: Chester. The other was so thick of waist and shoulder, Quelana figured he could only be the man leading the soldiers from earlier, Petrus. _I'm still in the Archives, _she realized with a wash of relief.

"The pardoner used to have a saying: '_All men pay for their sins._'. Suppose that means we'll have to answer for ours before this is all said and done."

"Piss on that."

One of them laughed, and then their voices began drawing too distant to make out clearly once more.

"-_the last_-" Quelana heard. "-_for all we know_-" and then finally, quietly, "-_Solaire_."

The last she heard after a long gap of silence was the slamming of some faraway door, and only the _thumps _from below remained in the cold, blue, emptiness of the tower. Quelana swallowed, rose slowly to her feet, and pushed the cell door back on its hinges again. She kept low to the floor as exited and avoided looking upwards at the enormous spin of the walls, lest she dizzy herself and loose her footing. She crept forth to the edge of the stairway and gripped tightly to its waist-high barrier before leaning her head out. The fall to the lower level wasn't nearly as maddening as the climb to the top level, but what she saw was enough to steal her breath anyway.

The _thumps _were the footsteps of a small army of crystal golems. Quelana had been shown the monsters in an old book by an ever _older _pupil of hers from a lifetime ago, but she'd never seen one in person. The things were larger than the rock-hurling brutes in the swamps of Blighttown, a splash of blue and white crystal covered their hulking bodies like a sheet of armor, and when their tree stump-like legs took strides, their footfalls shook the whole foundation around them. Fixed in the center of the room was what looked like some great machine, and the golems were working tirelessly to lug massive cogs and plates of metal and iron bars towards it and fit them in place like a giant puzzle. Quelana forced herself still and looked to the far end of the room, where a stack of books and scrolls were mounted high around a wooden table, candles burning in disorganized clusters here and there. Behind the books the candles cast a shadow onto the wall there. It was the dark silhouette of a man's shoulders and head, an enormous, wide-brimmed, hat resting atop it.

_Him_, Quelana realized with a flutter of her heart. _Logan!_

All at once, every last one of the golems below froze in place. The shadow of the man's head rose, as if someone had just called his name. Quelana's mouth fell agape, her lip quivered, her hands trembled, then-

-the man's head returned to whatever he'd been working on and the golems resumed their duties.

Quelana nearly collapsed. _What sorcery does this man possess!? _She thought on as she clutched her chest in attempt to slow her thundering heartbeat.

It was a long while before she felt well enough to go on. Wherever the tunnels had led her, Quelana felt was a very bad place; a very _wrong _place. She debated going upwards to trail after Chester and Petrus, but wasn't sure if they were responsible for her attempted kidnapping, and doubted they'd be kind to her even if they weren't. Likely, they'd throw her in one of these cells just for approaching them. She could not turn back to the tunnels, not now after coming so far. That left the staircase downwards... closer to the golems, and to the shadowy figure of the man in the big hat. _Abby trusts this man, _Quelana thought. _Solaire as well... but _why_? What has he shown them? What has he _told _them? Can they possibly deny the aura of strangeness that settles around him like some otherworldly fog? _She couldn't ascertain an answer to not one of her many questions, and so her path became clear. _Down then, _Quelana thought, stepping to the staircase and surveying the descent before her. _For answers... and for Abby._

It took a bit of willpower to get her feet moving, but once they had, she moved down the staircase at a steady pace, crouched low to the ground and keeping one, weary, eye over the bannister to stay vigilant for the golems. The lower Quelana traveled, the more disconcerted she grew, but she would not allow herself to flee, and in a few minutes time, she was rounding the last of the stairs and coming upon the ground floor, where she could _feel _the golem's foosteps shaking up into the soles of her own feet.

She found a shadowy alcove beside an enormous pillar and pressed herself against it, leaning out just enough to spy on the monsters as they worked. Being so close to them was a terrifying experience, and Quelana counted nine of the things as they moved past her unaware of her presence. She was debating slipping around the edge of the room to spy on Logan when a soft whimpering caught her ear. She froze, listening, and traced its origin to the end of the room opposite Logan, where a wide, arched, passage led to another section of the dungeon. She waited patiently to make sure it wasn't her mind playing tricks on her in the queer atmosphere of the tower, and soon enough she heard it again, faint and soft, but very _real_.

Quelana licked at her lips, eyeing the passage up. It would certainly be easier to cross to it than to get around the entire room to Logan. She peeked out of the shadows again, watching as a golem lumbered right past her pillar, a big wooden cog between its arms. None of them were facing her way. _Move, _a voice inside her commanded, and she did.

The passage was close enough that she was only exposed in the odd blue light of those torches for a moment, but she spun inside and slammed herself to the wall anyway, holding her breath anxiously, awaiting one of the monsters to come barreling after her to crush her bones. When none did, she let the breath out and turned to face the chamber. It was long and empty, and split down the middle by a tall row of bars. A door, not unlike the cell door she'd come through earlier, was carved into the middle of the bars, and without hesitation, she moved to it and shoved it open. The whimpering was coming from behind a wide wooden bookcase beside the wall that was angled just slightly away from it, like a door ajar. Quelana frowned and moved nearer to the thing. When she'd closed the gap, she saw the bookcase _was _in fact a sort of door, and it had been left swinging on its hinges. _This is where Chester and Petrus came from, _she thought at once. _They exited this hidden passage and forgot to seal it over again in their chatter. _She couldn't be sure that was the truth of it, but it seemed reasonable enough.

Her hand fell upon the bookcase edge and tugged. The thing swung forth easily, and Quelana leaned forward to peer into the dark hall within. The whimpering came clearly now, and it wasn't far. She swallowed, stole one last glance towards the golems, and entered, pulling the bookcase shut behind her.

The hall inside was as narrow and tight as the tunnels underground had been. The torches here, though, glowed a more sensible shade of red, and that brought Quelana some sense of relief at least. She stalked forward, allowing her hand to trail along the jagged, rock, wall beside her until the short tunnel ended and spilled into a wider chamber. Quelana peeked her head around the edge and saw a cell carved right into the rock, a man sitting on the floor inside with his head buried in his hands. She pressed to the wall and watched him for a moment, but a loose section of rock and dust slid loose beneath her hand. The man's head lifted and his swollen, red, eyes landed upon her.

"_Maurgah!_" He bellowed strangely and rose to his feet.

"_Quiet!_" Quelana hissed, stepping from the shadows and putting a finger to her mouth.

"_Aoura aarm_," he wailed, as if he'd forgotten how to form words, and grabbed at the bars of his cell.

Quelana studied the man. He skin was sallow and loose around his gaunt face. His hair was thin and brittle-looking and the rims of his eyes were unnaturally dark. He was naked except for a dirty cloth around his waist, and he stood in a hunched-over way that looked to bring him pain. His eyes darted between hers, a hint of hopeful anticipation housed within, and he made another, quieter, moan from between his lips. "_Uuurma._"

"What is wrong with you?" Quelana whispered, glancing wearily over her shoulder. The bookcase, thankfully, remained closed at the end of the tunnel.

The man frowned, took a breath, paused, and whimpered. He leaned his head back, his dirty hair hardly moving around his gaunt cheeks, and opened his mouth. Inside were two rows of filthy, brown and yellow, teeth, and nothing else. The man had no tongue.

Quelana suddenly heard the voice of Domhnall in her ear, speaking with Laturec as if it were still the second day they'd spent at his home in the Burg. _It was the sorcerer Griggs who killed off all the firekeepers, the mad fool. Logan caught up with him, though, and stopped him before he could get sweet Anastacia of Astora. They say he keeps Griggs locked up now. Took his tongue as punishment. Aye siwmae, that's no way to live. _She frowned, a surge of anger rising in her. "Griggs. Your name is Griggs."

A faint smile actually came upon the man's dirty face. He nodded eagerly, as if proud. His tongueless mouth moved to form words, but only garbled moans came out.

"You're a murderer," Quelana snapped. "You killed off the firekeepers. It was _you _who made sure the last Chosen Undead failed. It was _you _who took away his ability to return to the flames."

"_Mau mau_," Griggs mumbled, desperately shaking his head. Tears swelled in his eyes and his fingers trembled around the bars he grasped. He let out a long, doleful, moan and slapped his forehead against them. Quelana fixed him with a shrewd look as he sobbed against his cell. His head lifted after some time and he swiped at his cheeks, where two clean paths trailed down his otherwise-filthy face. He raised his brow hopefully and clapped his hands together.

"What do you _want _from me?" Quelana questioned. She had no sympathy for the man.

"_Urh_," he moaned and pantomimed scribbling onto his own palm. "_Uuuur!_" He pleaded, holding his hands to his chest so she could see in the torchlight.

"You want to write something?"

His head nodded so frantically, his brow clipped the cell bars.

_Perhaps he seeks vengeance against Logan, _Quelana thought. _Perhaps he can offer some insight into the man's madness. Some weakness. _She fixed the man with a stern look and pointed her finger upwards, commanding a stream of flame to leap from her fingertip. He gasped and stumbled back from the bars in terror. "Keep quiet. Do you understand?"

He swallowed, nodded, eyed her finger with a mixture of awe and fear.

Quelana followed her path back out to the main chamber, slipping stealthily out of the bookcase and returning to the arched passage, where she'd spotted a spill of scrolls earlier. There were papers along every inch of the dungeon, but she had to move beneath the shadows a bit further around to snatch a quill and inkpot from a cabinet. She hurried back, stopping and waiting in the shadows every time a golem's hulking figure faced her way.

The man was gripping the bars of his prison again when she'd returned, and his face came alive with an exuberance she wouldn't have thought possible of someone in his position. She passed him the materials through the thin gap of the bars, and waited patiently as he desperately scribbled on them. A few moments later, he passed the paper back to her, nodding and smiling.

Quelana took it, folded it, and slipped it inside her cloak. The man's hopeful look faded, and a look of despair replaced it. He moaned and shook his head, pointing at her cloak. "I cannot read," she informed him. "I will see this to someone who can."

Griggs bellowed such a sorrowful groan, Quelana thought he might collapse to the floor. He didn't, instead lumbering back to the wall as heavily as the golems outside and sliding down to where he'd originally been sitting. He buried his face in his hands once more and sobbed.

Quelana watched him, unsure of what to make of the display. "You just... stay quiet. I will return if whatever information you wrote is worthwhile."

His only response was a quiet whimper into his hands, and so Quelana left him that way, heading deeper into the tunnel.

The next time the passage widened into a chamber, an identical cell awaited her. This time, however, it did not house a man, it housed the grey wolf that had come to see Abby out of the woods. Quelana gasped upon spotting the beast: he'd grown since she last saw him. The wolf padded back and forth behind the barred wall, his snout trailing before him pressed to the ground. The muzzle they'd fixed him with lay beside him, split down the seems. It didn't surprise Quelana that he'd grown out of it; the beast appeared to have maybe _doubled _in size. When his dark eyes spotted her, he growled and barred his teeth, shifting his paws to face her.

"I don't come as a foe," Quelana spoke to the thing, not sure if it understood, but bringing _herself _some peace of mind anyway.

The wolf snapped its enormous jaws shut and shook out the furry, grey, hairs around its neck. Its tail raised in the air, swatting at the walls, and Quelana was suddenly very happy that the thing was locked up. _This monster is no friend of mine, _she thought, watching as drool dripped from its fangs. _And I don't think it's a friends of _Abby's _either._

She pressed on, ignoring the wolf as it snapped its jaws at her once again when she passed by its prison. The tunnel began to curve around, likely following the outer wall of the tower, and the passages between chambers was growing longer. Quelana trudged on, though, refusing to let her fear overcome her. The tunnel ended, and once again she was faced with a chamber and a cell. This time, it was a group of children locked up.

Quelana rushed to the bars and took hold of them. _What cruelty is this!? _She thought. There were nine of them in total, sitting at the far end of the cell on the floor, their little heads resting either against the stone wall itself or upon each other's shoulder. Their eyes were all opened, but they were rolled back into their heads and had taken on a faint, blue, glow not dissimilar to the queer torches outside. Their breathing was coming normal enough, but none of them seemed to be conscious.

_This is madness, _she thought. _Who would do this to children!? This Logan is a monster. An insane monster. Domhnall had the truth of it. I need warn Abby... I need to get her out of here! _She considered turning back there and then, but her curiosity about what _other _horrors the tunnel would lead to kept her feet in place. She turned from the children to the tunnel leading back to the tunnel leading _deeper_. Torchlight flickered from within, and Quelana thought, knowing it was mad but thinking it anway, _The fire is calling to me_.

She went deeper.

The next chamber did not house a barred cell. Instead, it opened up to a large hole carved into the floor. Quelana stepped to the rim of it and clutched to her chest as she peered inside, both terrified and intrigued to learn what horrors it held. There, beneath a row of bars, was a very tall woman with a thick fall of snow-white hair. Her arms were stretched out to her sides and chained to the walls to keep her in place, and a pair of shackles wrapped her feet. Quelana was trying to figure out what powers the woman could possibly wield to warrant such strict restraint, when she saw a _tail_ lash out from the prisoner's rear. She gasped, and the woman looked upwards towards the noise. There was a horse's bit wedged inside of her mouth and strapped in place keeping her silent, fangs sinking into the leather bar, and _horns _protruding from her brow where hair would've been on a human. _But this is no human, _Quelana realized. _This is the dragon/human hybrid. The crossbreed. This is Priscilla._

The crossbreed growled as feral as the wolf had and jerked at her chains, glaring hatefully out of the hole towards Quelana. Quelana squinted, spotting bandages wrapped around the beast-woman's arms just above the elbows and spotted with dried bits of something red. _He's been drawing blood from this creature, _Quelana thought with a sting of sympathy. Priscilla growled again, sinking her fangs into the bit, and ripped at her chains. Quelana backed away from the hole. She desired more than ever to turn back, but found herself planted in place once more, staring forward, staring deeper.

The next chamber housed mushroom men, like they'd seen in the Darkroot Garden. The things were sprawled out on the floor inside a cell, bandages on their arms the same as Priscilla's.

The chamber after that, she came upon a hollow soldier lying strapped down to a wooden table. His limbs were all missing, the dead flesh around his face scarred and blackened. He was conscious, though; his mouth moved up and down, no sound coming from within. Quelana hurried past him.

A bat-winged demon awaited in the next chamber; pale and thin and fanged. It was chained up against the far wall, and its wings were clipped off near to its body. The demon wailed upon seeing her, twisting its head at an unnatural angle and cawing as meekly as a baby bird.

_Mother of Izalith save me, _Quelana thought as she pressed deeper. _What is this man trying to accomplish!?_ She was halfway down the tunnel when a voice called over her shoulder. Quelana gasped and nearly collapsed she was so struck with terror. She spun around and ignited her flames immediately, her heart beating a war drum in her chest.

"Quelana, _no_!" A man pleaded. He'd been moving quickly after her when she turned, but now that her fire was lit, he slowed to a walk.

Quelana narrowed her eyes. "...Laurentius?" She questioned, noticing that the hand holding her flame was shaking cowardly, making the fire flicker and waver.

"Mother of Pyromancy, Daughter of Chaos, Descendancy of the Great Witch Izalith, _please_," he begged, stepping forth in his hooded cloak. "Do not burn me. I come as a friend." The man lowered to his knees and brought his hands up into the air beside his head. "I carry no weapon and I come alone."

Quelana's fear gave way to anger. "You despicable man!" She hissed, her flame growing larger involuntarily in her hand. "You are _aligned _with such a man as Logan!? A man who keeps... keeps these _horrors _locked up down here!?"

"No! Quelana, please! I'm _not _aligned with Logan!" Laurentius explained. "I serve another. Mother of Pyromancy... it was _me _who attempted to kidnap you from Abby's chambers."

Quelana's anger swelled. She wrenched back her arm, ready to douse the man in a bath of flame. "What did you do with her!?"

"Nothing, I swear it!" He pleaded. "I took you away from her so that Logan wouldn't get his hands on you! That is _all_! Listen... you saw the things Logan has locked up down here. He experiments on them! He... he would have thrown you down here as well and ran his 'tests' and you would have _never _seen daylight again. I got to you before that happened! I swear it, my lady! I only took you as stealthily as I did so as not to disturb Abby."

"Where _is _she!?" Quelana demanded.

"She is safe! We are watching over her!" Laurentius explained. "But she is... something different. The followers and myself... we fear her."

"You _should _fear me," Quelana snapped and threatened him with her fire once more.

"You cannot fear what you know in your heart you love," Laurentius said, and his words grew soft and quiet. "You birthed the craft I've dedicated my life to. In turns... I _owe _a part of my life to you. I am yours to command, my lady, but I'd beg you to listen to me. Things are going to get very bad here. And soon. Logan stands in defiance of the Gods as well as the hollow army. And, most importantly, he stands in defiance of the Order."

"The Order?" Quelana echoed. None of what the man was saying made any sense, and a rage still burned in her heart.

"I will explain once we are safe," Laurentius said. "Can I stand, my lady?"

"No," Quelana snapped. "Stay on your knees and don't move."

"As you command," Laurentius said, bowing his head obediently.

Quelana moved cautiously forward, her fire held balefully in her palm before her. Laurentius calmly watched her approach, his hands remaining in the air. She stepped in front of him, quelled her flame, and grabbed his cloak. She leaned beside his head so quickly, he nearly fell backwards. She whispered the words of her Mother, the words that took hold of the mind and commanded it as she commanded the flames; her Undead Rapport spell. A confused yelp escaped Laurentius' lips, he went stiff, then entirely limp in her grasp. His head rolled back and his eyes took on a heavy glaze.

"Do I command you?" Quelana asked.

"...yes," he muttered in a monotone.

Quelana nodded, satisfied. The spell not only put whomever's mind she cast it upon under her control, it weakened their will, making it near impossible to lie. "Is everything you just told me true?" She asked, fixing her eyes shrewdly upon his.

"...yes."

She breathed a sigh of relief. Abby was safe, and they were alone; those were good things to know. "How did you find me down here?"

"...chasing... through the tunnels... saw you... with quill and inkpot... followed..."

She thought for a moment before asking, "What is this 'Order' you spoke of?"

"...The Path of the Dragon..."

"A covenant?"

"...yes."

"And what do you want with me?"

"...your love..."

Quelana frowned. "What does this _order _want with me?"

"...to see you safe... to the true God of Lordran..."

"And who is that?"

"...the Everlasting Dragon..."

Quelana knew very little of covenants or dragons. She held Laurentius' head up as it threatened to tumble to his chest. "How many of you are here in the Archives?"

"...five..."

"And how many _outside _the Archives?"

"...three..."

_Eight of them... a sad excuse for a covenant, _she thought, holding her gaze on his heavy-lidded eyes. _But if they could protect Abby... see her away from this mad man and his mad castle... _"Are you willing to take Abby and myself away from here?"

"...yes..."

Quelana nodded; she'd spent about as much time as she wanted to in this insane dungeon of Logan's. She reached inside her cloak and pulled out Griggs' letter. "Can you read?"

"...yes..."

She handed him the letter. "Read it to me."

His head drooped forward so his eyes could land upon the paper. He began reading in the dry, monotonous, tone her spell had left his voice in, "..._Logan lies.. I didn't kill off the firekeepers... Logan did... he is obsessed with immortality... doesn't want Lordran saved... will stop at nothing... save me... kill him..._"

Quelana's breath was caught in her chest, her mouth agape. She shook Laurentius' shoulders. "Is that all?"

"...no..." the pyromancer said and read on, "it says... at bottom... _don't stay here... long... Logan_ _can... feel a person's... presence..._"

"Feel a person's presence?" Quelana questioned. "What does that-"

Footsteps approached from the hall over Laurentius' shoulder, coming their way; coming _fast_.

"Get up," she hissed, and pulled Laurentius to his feet. "And follow me as fast and hard as you can."

"...yes..." He nodded.

Quelana turned, and with nowhere else to go, sprinted off deeper into the dungeon, Laurentius at her heels.


	22. Chapter 22

Patches unsheathed a wing-tipped spear and sauntered forward to place the sharpened tip to Lautrec's throat. The bald man grinned, and when he did, Lautrec saw his mouth had acquired a few new gaps where the teeth should have been. Patches snorted, spat to the stone floor between them, and asked, "How do you do it?" and when the knight did not answer, added, "Last I saw of you, old friend, you were bleedin' out from my dagger's hole in your side and sailing off a _bloody bridge_! So tell me: how do you do it? How do you keep on _living_."

"Perseverance," Lautrec answered.

Patches frowned. "Seems a bit of a simple trick, ain't it?" He pushed the spear tip just a tad deeper into Lautrec's throat; a thin trickle of blood breaking the skin there.

Lautrec did not waver. "I find the simple tricks work best."

Patches frown deepened and his lips pulled back in a snarl. His knuckles went white around the handle of the spear and he cocked it back, taking aim at Lautrec's throat.

"Patches..." the deep voice of one of the two fat men accompanying him called over his shoulder, and the words seemed to, at least, give hesitation to his actions. "Calm yourself. We're going inside."

Patches' hands shook and his face contorted into an ugly mix of hatred and longing, but he eventually lowered the spear from Lautrec's throat. "Well you heard him," he snapped, stepping behind the knight. "Move your ass."

The four of them-Patches, his two heavy-set friends and the red-headed woman-had apparently made a little encampment for themselves atop Sen's Fortress. Lautrec and Ben, gagged and bound at the hands and waist beside him, were led across the snow-caked walkways hovering high above the fortresses' lower level, marched up a lengthy flight of stairs that angled around a tower halfway up, and shoved beneath a doorway that opened to a small room with wooden floors and archer slits carved into the stone walls. Patches drove the blunt end of his spear into the back of Lautrec's knees, collapsing him, and the red-headed woman laughed with twisted delight upon grabbing Ben by the back of the neck and dragging him to the corner of the room. She shoved him against the wall there and made him kneel before it. The big men in their plate-mail armor came wobbling in after, red in the face from the climb.

From his knees, Lautrec surveyed their inventory: a sad-looking little bonfire beneath one of the archer slits; a bundle of cloth, from the top of which spilled stale hunks of bread and gaunt skins of wine; two gathered piles of snow in the corner, one melting into buckets for drinking water, the other preserved beneath the windows, salt-cured slabs of meat lying frozen within. Lautrec wondered only briefly just what exactly they were _doing _here, but figured since Ben and himself still lived, they'd find out soon enough. He turned to look back at Patches, but the bald man's spear pressed to his cheek, keeping his head forward, pointing at the wall.

One of the fat men grunted beneath his own weight as he lumbered to a corner of the room and collapsed into a wooden chair there; the thing creaking and sounding ready to splinter apart beneath him. He removed his chainmail helm and filled an empty tankard with some of the melted snow water in the bucket near his feet. That's when Lautrec recognized him. "You're Nico," he said.

The big man's eyes flicked to his, narrowed, and then exchanged looks with the rest of his traveling mates. When his gaze returned to Lautrec, he was frowning. "Aye. How do you know this?"

"And your friend there is Vince," Lautrec went on. "You hail for Thorolund. You protect, well, you _once _protected the priestess, Lady Rhea."

A look of childish wonder came across Nico's face, as if he was bearing witness to some magic trick. "Tell me, Sir Knight, how it is you _know _these things?"

"The nutter thinks he's lived other lives," Patches answered for him, snorting derisive laughter. "Claims he's in some foolish 'cycle'. That's how he'll explain it. Me? I think the bastard is Logan's spy."

Nico studied Lautrec. "Perhaps he tells it true and he _has _seen through the lens of previous life. The Ancient works in mysterious ways."

"He ain't lived no other _lives, _Nico," the red-head woman snapped. "That's just _stupid_."

"Things only appear stupid when they aren't understood," Nico persisted. The man leaned forth to hand his cup to Lautrec. "How did you get past the Bishop Havel?"

"I didn't exactly get _past_ him," Lautrec admitted, peering into the cup and swirling the icy water within before taking a sip. It was cold and refreshing on his throat. He lowered it, handing it back to Nico with a gracious tip of his head, before saying, "I killed him."

"He's _mad_," the woman laughed.

"_Killed _him?" The other large man, Vince, said, walking beside his friend. Vince was younger than Nico, his face pale and smooth beneath a crop of orange hair. "You're telling us you killed Havel the Rock?"

Lautrec shrugged. "His body is in the waters at the bottom of the fortress. Have a look for yourself."

Nico and Vince exchanged a look. Nico nodded and Vince begrudgingly took up his mace from a wooden table at his side and headed back outside. Nico watched him go before turning back to Lautrec. "If you tell it true, Sir Knight... we owe you our gratitude."

"_Gratitude_!?" Patches snapped. "Didn't you hear what I told you earlier!? This man is _mad_! He tried to _strangle _me! He only wants to murder that firekeeping wench, Anastacia, and-"

Lautrec stood so suddenly, he'd caught the room unaware. He spun, grabbed the hilt of Patches' spear, and twisted. Patches yelped, his wrist turning at an unnatural angle, and released the weapon. Lautrec gripped it two handed and thrust the bar up into Patches' throat, shoving the man back against the wall and pinning him there, his throat trapped under the spear's bar.

The red-headed woman had her bow at the ready in a flash, an arrow nocked and aimed at Lautrec's chest. Nico rose and held up a hand to stop her. "Let him go, Sir Knight," the man commanded calmly.

Patches' face was turning a wonderful shade of purple, and Lautrec thought back to the day he'd nearly killed him at the Firelink Shrine. _I should have finished him when I had the chance_, he thought. He pressed the spear forward harder and Patches gurgled a choked sound. "If you ever speak of Anastacia again, I will kill you, Patches. Do you understand that?" He asked.

Patches' reply was so thick in his own strangled gasps of air, he could not be understood.

"I didn't hear you... _old friend_"

"_Enough_!" Nico demanded, pulling a crescent axe from its sheath at his hip.

Lautrec pulled the spear away and Patches collapsed to the floor, grasping at his neck and desperately pulling breaths of air. Lautrec glared at him a moment before tossing the spear down beside him. He faced Nico, who was standing alert and ready with a big kite shield held before him. "There are some things you should know about Patches," Lautrec said. "He's a coward, he's dumb, and he's as callous as any man I've met. That is a dangerous combination of traits. He rode with me and my traveling companions for awhile, then betrayed me, stabbed me in the side, and threw me from a bridge. He will do the same to you, regardless of whatever reason you took him amongst you. Let me kill him now and do us _both _a favor."

"It isn't our place to judge the wicked, Sir Knight," Nico told him, lowering his shield just a tad. "His judgement will come before the Ancient, as will all of ours. He is eternal and he is wise and _his _is the one true path to transcendence. Now seat yourself."

Lautrec's eyes flicked from Nico to the woman to Patches still gasping on the floor. His shotels were in a leather bag hooked around Nico's waistband. With no clear path to retrieve them, he sat. The tension melted from the room. They stood, watching him as if he were some wild animal for a moment, then Vince returned came waddling back into the room. His face was even redder than it had been last time as he spoke, "The knight tells it true. Havel is no more." He held up his hand, and in it was a small ring; the infamous treasure that men claimed gave the bishop his maddening amount of endurance to wear and wield such heavy arms.

Nico stepped forward and took it in his own chubby fingers, rolling it around as if to test the reality of the thing. "Father Eternal," he spoke reverently, "You really killed the man."

"_His _judgement came a little early, I suppose," Lautrec said, leaning back in the chair and folding his arms. "The man had lost his eyes as well as his sanity. He was attempting to crush my bones to little bits with a dragon's tooth before I stuck his throat with an arrow."

"Aye," Nico agreed. "The man was madder than Logan himself. Some souls may only find peace in their own destruction. The Ancient will forgive this sin."

"Ancient..." Lautrec echoed, narrowing his eyes on the big man before him and finally piecing together their group's purpose. "And you said 'Father Eternal' before... you're speaking of the dragon, aren't you? Down in the Great Hollow?"

"We walk his path," Vince said with a nod of his head. "As do all righteous men in these dark times. Those who will be _saved _at least."

"One true path," Nico added. "One true God." Both he and Vince bowed their heads reverently, and the woman was quick to do the same. Patches had clambered back to his feet and upon seeing the three of them bowing, did so himself, a quick flash of reproach on his face where the color had started coming back in. "We were heading to the Great Hollow," Nico went on when the strange moment of silence passed, "when we came across your friend. Patches warned us of your... _skills_, and so we took him captive to await you. We were plotting on a way to make it past Havel, but... it seems you've done that work for us. You... have our thanks."

Lautrec nodded, his eyes landing on the satchel at the man's waist. "My weapons..." he said.

"Not yet," Nico went on, "I have a proposition for you."

_Everyone wants something_, Lautrec thought. "Which is...?"

Ben began grumbling muffled protests into his gag in the corner of the room. The woman beside him planted her boot on the small of his back and held him in place. "Shut up," she commanded.

"Be kind, Pharis," Nico told her.

Lautrec's eyes narrowed on the woman. "Pharis? You're not Pharis. I know of the great legendary archer. He's been dead for about a hundred years now." He surveyed the woman in her leather armors and her black longbow and her funny little hat resting between the bright red pigtails of her hair. "And Pharis was a _man_."

"I can be who I wanna be," the woman-_Pharis_, apparently-snapped. "Only Father Eternal can tell me otherwise, _knight_. Don't forget it!" And when Ben squirmed beneath her boot she turned her glare downwards and shouted, "I told you to shut _up_!"

Another realization was dawning upon Lautrec. His eyes moved from Ben to Nico. "Why is the boy bound?"

"'Cuz he's stayin' with _us_," Pharis answered for him, grinning as Ben struggled beneath her foot.

Nico sighed. "I... apologize, Sir Knight. Patches has told us what the boy is. We... cannot allow him to go any further with you right now."

Lautrec looked to Patches, whose ugly face grew even uglier with a satisfied smirk. "That's right, Lautrec. They know. And we're taking him with us. Father Forever will-"

"Father _Eternal,_" Vince corrected.

Patches sneered. "Yes, right. Father _Eternal _will know what to do with the kid."

"He is Chosen," Nico went on. "We intend to find out what exactly he's been chosen _for_."

Ben peered up at Lautrec from the floor, a genuine look of fear across his bearded face. Lautrec sighed. "And I suppose there's no talking you out of this...?"

Nico shook his head. "We do what we do because we walk the Path. However... that is where my proposition comes. My brothers and sisters here," he said, gesturing to Pharis and Vince and Patches, "are united not only by our devotion to the Path and to Father Eternal, but by our banished status at the Archives."

"Logan caught us praying to the true God of Lordran," Vince explained. "And outcast Nico, Pharis, and myself from the castle. He claims there _are _no Gods worth worshiping in Lordran. He claims man is his _own _God."

_And perhaps, _Lautrec thought, _he has the right of it_. He held his tongue.

"We can never go back there," Nico went on. "And so our pilgrimage for the Great Hollow begins. However, there are others who walk the Path that still lie inside the castle walls that we wish to inform of our plans. And so you see our dilemma?"

"You need someone who _hasn't _been banished to go speak with your 'brothers and sisters', is that it?" Lautrec asked.

"Aye," Nico said, nodding his big head. "And if you do this for us... we will return the boy to you."

"_Nico_," Vince snapped, his brow creased in confusion.

Nico held his meaty hand up. "If the Father sees this knight there and back safely, he clearly does not wish us to _have _the boy. It is fair and it is just and it is what we will offer. We will wait here for three days and three nights. If you return to us, our brothers and sisters at your side, within that time... the boy is yours."

Ben looked to Lautrec, his eyes wide and apprehensive. Lautrec turned away from the boy back to Nico. "And I'm supposed to just take your word on this?"

Nico dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "I swear it true, Father Eternal judge me now if my tongue speaks falsehoods."

"Swearing to some old dragon in a lake of ash means nothing to _me_," Lautrec told him. "We don't share the same faith."

Both Nico and Vince's face darkened, but Nico quickly went on, "We know not every man has seen the Path as clearly as we have. We don't hold your lack of faith against you, Sir Knight, but these are dark times upon us." He grew quiet, somber, and lifted his head to the room's sole window to watch the snows dance in the wind. "We rest on the cusp of a great divide amongst the people of Lordran. It is coming sooner than I would've hoped. There are those who will walk the Path and be saved and there are those who will stand to block it and be damned." He looked back to Lautrec. "It is _Logan _who will lead those heathens. And it is Father Eternal who will ensure he fails. If you live to see that day, Sir Knight, who will _you _stand with?"

Lautrec shrugged. "Whomever is offering the most wine and women, I suppose."

Nico frowned. "You make a _jest _of this? Look outside these walls, Sir Knight. The end times are upon us. The cold comes and with it the darkness, looking to eclipse everything in its shroud of suffering. You _will _choose a side, my brother, I can only hope you choose wisely."

"And what about the Kiln of the First Flame?" Lautrec questioned, not allowing himself to be wrapped up in the man's zealous speech. "If you know the boy here is the Chosen Undead, why not help see him to the bonfire and have him light it?"

Nico shook his head. "Only damnation lies that way. We learned that with the _last _Chosen Undead. _This _is the world it left us with."

"I've been told the _last _Chosen failed to kill Gwyn. Perhaps that is-"

"Aye," Nico pressed on a bit more angrily. "As will _all _who attempt to go there. It is the way the Father wishes it. _His _is the only path worth walking. This isn't up for debate. I will exchange no more words on the matter."

_An easy way to win an argument, _Laturec thought. _Refuse to _have _one. _Again, he held his tongue.

"Find Laurentius," Vince spoke up, stepping between Nico and himself in a clear attempt to diffuse the growing tension between them. "He will gather the others. Tell him the time for our pilgrimage is _now_. Have him gather the followers as well as spread the word to any others whom may be unaware. There _are _men and women who will walk the Path once they see how clear it lies."

"The pyromancer?" Lautrec questioned. "He's one of _you_?"

"Aye, amongst others," Nico answered. "We all walk the Path together. We will stand against Logan and the cold and the darkness and whatever _else _Lordran throws at us because Father is wise and Father is eternal and Father's path leads to transcendence. One true path; one true God."

Again, the room lowered their heads in quiet prayer, and again Patches was late to join and did so with a look of disgust on his face; clearly not sharing their piety.

"Three days and three nights..." Lautrec muttered, rubbing at his chin. _Can I finish my work with Anastacia, kill Logan, _and _rescue Abby is she still lives in three days time? _He turned to Patches. "What has become of Quelana? Of Abby?"

Patches smirked. "What do _you _care, Lautrec?"

"Answer me."

Patches' smirk faded only momentarily before growing wider. "You want to know? The knight of thorns was _so _upset you defeated him on the bridge that day, he raped and killed the two of them right there on the spot. A pity. They wailed like sick dogs." He laughed.

Lautrec studied the man's face. "For someone who gets by in life by lying and deceiving others, you never got quite good at it, did you, Patches?"

Patches smirk vanished, a sneer replacing it.

"He told us he traveled with a witch and a young woman," Nico answered the question for him. "They got split up at the Archives. Chester chased Patches here off and told him not to come back. We came across him wondering through the upper wall of Anor Londo and took him in. If one of those two woman you named is a witch, I'd presume they're alive and in the Archives."

Patches' face darkened, as if he were a child who'd just had his toy taken from him.

_They live, _Lautrec thought, finding it strange how much relief that simple fact seemed to bring him. He wasn't sure why he even cared: it was looking less and less likely that Abby was the answer to Lordran's problems as the days passed. "If I don't return in three days..."

"We will depart for the Great Hollow," Nico confirmed. "The boy with us."

Ben mumbled something, but Pharis was quick to give him a shake and quiet him down again.

Lautrec nodded, avoiding Ben's pleading look from his position trapped on the floor beneath the woman's boot. "Then I'm wasting time I don't have sitting _here_." He rose, extending his hand. "My weapons."

Nico studied him for a moment before reaching to the satchel at his hip and retrieving the shotels from within. He handed them over, and Lautrec noted both Vince and Patches' hands fell to the hilts of their own weapons. _They fear me, _Lautrec thought with some amusement. _Outnumbered four to one and they still fear me. That's... a good thing._

"May Father Eternal watch over you, Sir Knight," Nico said, offering his hand to shake.

Lautrec acted as if he hadn't seen the gesture, shouldering past the heavy-set man instead and stepping to the doorway. He squinted outside to the high, stone, walls of Anor Londo. "Does this 'bat-winged' demon I hear about still travel the skies to the city?"

"Aye," Vince answered.

Lautrec nodded. "Then I will see you in three days time," he said, looking to Ben and giving the boy the most reassuring nod of his head he could muster. Ben sighed and slumped to the floor in defeat.

"Walk the Path true, my brother, and your footing will always fall true," Nico said, waving a farewell.

_My _footing_ would like to fall upon your rather wide ass in truth, _Lautrec thought as he forced a smile at the man.

But he held his tongue; Anor Londo awaited.


	23. Chapter 23

"This is the first sentence of the chapter," Abby read, licking at her dry lips and clearing her throat to read from the dusty tome clutched in her hands. "'_Oolacile was swallowed by the Abyss, rendering the words written herein as mostly useless'_. What a thing to write! It's as if the author was trying to persuade people _not _to read his work!" She shook her head, closing the book and turning it over to study the cover. The title read: '_Ooalicle: A History of Ruin'_, and beneath was a lovely printed photograph of a sprawling, green, landscape littered with trees and flowers, a mighty colosseum of stone standing tall on the horizon. A wistful smile came to Abby's face as she ran her fingers along the picture, dreaming of a Lordran that could be half as pretty.

Chester hopped from the ladder he'd been perched on and crossed the library room to her. They were in a small, secluded section that he'd claimed was 'the forbidden area' of the library to the public, and so his mask was flipped around to the back of his head. He wore a wide grin on his comely face as he neared. "_That _book is useless anyway," he told her, stepping around a stack of books to approach the chair she sat in and leaning on its back to get a look. "You don't need a _history _of Oolacile when you are in the presence of a man who's actually _been _there."

Abby turned in her chair to fix him with a shrewd look. "You jest..."

He snickered, leaned down so his lips were close to her ear, and whispered, "I would not tease a woman as beautiful as you, my lady."

She pulled her head away. "Stop it," she told him, but felt a smile rise on her face, betraying her words. "And Oolacile was swallowed by ash three _hundred _years ago. Are you a liar or are you secretly a very, _very_, old man?"

Chester's grin widened. He rose and put his hands up in surrender. "You've found my secret, my lady. I'm caught. I am ancient. Now you know why I'm so much _wiser _than everyone else." He snickered again, twisted his long, slender, frame around the back of the chair so he was beside her, and fell to his knees. "Will you swear my secret is safe with you, my lady?"

Abby raised her chin haughtily, playing along. "Perhaps. Perhaps _not_."

"I will reward you," he said.

"You have nothing I desire you scoundrel," she told him, snatching her hand away as he made to take it in his own.

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," he said. "I've been holding out on you, Abby. Admittedly, I _am _a scoundrel in that regard, I suppose, but I do have something for you."

"If you try to kiss me again..." Abby began, casting a baleful look on him. Her eyes moved to the sharp cut of his cheekbones and to the dimple of his chin and finally his lips and she thought that maybe it wouldn't be such a terrible thing.

"I shall not," he said, "I _will _give you... this." He reached into his longcoat and pulled something thin and fragile looking that sparkled in the glow from the candlelight on the table beside them, but quickly moved it behind his back.

"What is that?" She questioned, craning her neck in attempt to steal a glance.

"Swear my secret is safe," he insisted," and it's all yours."

She smiled. "My lips are sealed. Happy? Show me."

A brief look of disappointment crossed Chester's face, as if he'd been hoping the game would go on a bit longer, but he held true to his word nonetheless. He revealed the item: a beautiful crown of silver, adorned with a headpiece filled with red and blue and yellow jewels that twinkled prettily in the candlelight. He twisted it so the flame caught at a different angle, and the jewels reflected onto his face.

Abby's mouth had fallen agape. "Where did you _get _that?"

He watched her, seeming to take a great pleasure in her surprise. "There are all sorts of treasures in these walls. All one has to do is look in the right places." His eyes rose to her forehead. "May I?"

"I... I don't think I should wear such a flashy thing," Abby said quietly, though found the task of pulling her eyes from the crown difficult. "I mean... what would that say about me?"

"It would say what it's _supposed _to," Chester said. "That you are a princess and that you should be treated as one." Without further hesitation, he lifted the crown to her brow and fixed the silver band around her head, sliding it beneath the short tufts of brown hair that were growing back to her. It fit as if it were made for her.

"Am I... pretty with it?" Abby asked, still unsure of wearing such an extravagant thing.

Chester stared into her eyes for a long time before answering, "The prettiest, my lady."

Abby felt blood rush to her cheeks. "Stop," she said, turning away. She moved her hands to the bands of the crown, but when her fingers found it, she hesitated in its removal. It felt... _right_ somehow upon her. "Maybe I'll just wear it... in here. Like the way you only show your face in here."

"I only show my face to _you_," Chester corrected, standing and walking beside the wall of bookshelves at the rear of the room. He held his gloved hand out and trailed his fingers along them. "Are you still stubbornly set on reading all these damned things?"

"There called _books_, Chester," Abby said, setting aside the history of Oolacile and scanning the shelves for something a bit more relevant. "It would do all of us some good to read one or two. And _yes_, I intend to read as many as I can. Perhaps there is an answer hidden away somewhere in all of this."

"If there was, believe me, my lady, Logan would have found it a long time ago." He plucked a book from the shelf, flipped through the pages, and tossed it aside. "He's likely ready every cursed tome, scroll, and book in this castle _twice_."

Abby stood and crossed to the far wall, standing on the tips of her toes to read off the titles of a row on a shelf just above her head. There seemed to be endless numbers of books on sorceries and spells, and almost just as many on catalysts and alchemy. She'd already started reading off the section detailing the histories of the various parts of Lordran, and was looking to move on to something perhaps about the creatures that inhabited them. There was little else for her to do. She'd given up on trying to sleep: _that_ had become nearly impossible. When her eyes closed, the hollowed soldiers of Anor Londo filled her vision, angry and aggressive and infinite. When she _did _manage to drift off, the sleep was brief and poor and often ended in some terrible nightmare of demons coming into the castle windows at night and dragging her away, flying off into the swirling snows as she screamed a scream that made no sound.

She glanced to Chester beside her, plucking books at random and scoffing at their titles before shoving them back in place, and smiled, thankful for his presence. She was alone now, the companions that had saved her from the Asylum all either gone or dead. Solaire was busy training men in combat for some war Logan seemed convinced they stood on the brink of, and Logan himself would only call upon her once a day, and even _then _she could never remember what they talked about. She could recall his voice, the sound of it, the _tone _of it, but the words were lost to her almost as quickly as he spoke them, and she could never focus on what they were when she left his company, as if the entire meeting had been a dream. _I wish I could sleep, _she had thought after the first meeting, so that perhaps her mind would be sharp and ready to concentrate, but the sleep would not come, and so she had no choice but to soldier forth.

The books helped, but Chester helped more. She liked to watch his face as he read. He was a dreadfully slow reader, having admitted to reading less than three whole books in his life, and his comely face grew even more so when his brow creased and his eyes narrowed to concentrate on the words. She refused to tell him, but she even liked his constant teasing and the somewhat-sarcastic chivalry that he'd labeled his 'Solaire impression'. More than anything, she was just happy to _have _someone with her. The castle was big and she was small and it was easy to feel lost and insignificant inside it.

"Here's a useful one," he said, pulling a book free from its shelf. "'_The Art of Making Love_'."

"I know you're lying," she said, smiling.

He feigned shock, acting as if he was reading the inner cover. "Oh my! It was written by... _me_?"

"Do you actually _use _these... _tactics _of yours on the women wherever you come from?" Abby questioned with a shake of her head, but found her smile remaining.

"I told you where I come from," Chester said, putting the book back. "And yes, I use them. They work like a charm on most women, but I suppose you aren't most women, my princess."

"Oh, don't start calling me that. Please."

"I'll make a trade," he offered, sauntering forth and fixing his dark eyes upon hers. "I'll stop in exchange for one little thing..."

Abby swallowed, her heart quickening in her chest. "Oh? What one little thing is that?" She asked, trying not to sound flustered.

"Oh, its just this... _little _thing," he said, stepping before her and taking her chin in his hand. She found it near impossible not to look at his lips as they moved. "Perhaps a kiss from the sweetest girl in Lordran will suffice."

"_I said you can't!_" A voice bellowed from outside the library room.

Abby snapped out of her daze as Chester's face darkened and he flipped his mask back around to hide it.

"_Ma'am! Stop!_" The voice shouted, and its owner was now clearly Petrus, who'd been roaming the outer library.

A second later, a dark-haired woman rushed into the room, a child cradled in her arms. She looked wildly around before spotting Abby and a look of relief washed over her face. "Chosen," she said, smiling and moving quickly across the room.

Petrus appeared in the doorway, sweat lining his plump brow and cheeks. "_Ma'am_! This section of the library is not-"

"It's okay," Abby said, raising a hand, and though she saw Petrus was not happy about taking command from her, she _also _knew she had the right to give it. Logan had told them all as much after he'd slit her throat and she was reborn from the flames two days earlier. She turned her eyes on the woman and smiled. "Are you alright, Mary?"

The woman's face brightened immensely. "You... you know my name?"

Abby stepped forth to take the woman's hand. "Of course. You told me the day I was killed."

Mary laughed, but there were tears in her eyes as well. "Oh, my. I didn't... there were so many people shouting that day, I just... oh, you are sweet as they say, dear. Oh! And your _crown _is lovely! Breathtaking! Really!"

Abby lowered her head, chagrined. "Oh, I... this isn't really mine and-"

"It's my boy," Mary went on, seemingly unaware of Abby's discomfort. "He's sick, Chosen. I know you can't exactly _heal _him, but... but perhaps if you just... laid your hand upon his brow like you did for Thomas the other day?"

"Oh, of course," Abby said. A man had come to her the previous day complaining of an ache in his head that would not leave him. She had tried laying her hand on his brow and calming him the way she'd calmed the Taurus Demon at the Firelink Shrine and Lautrec at Domhnall's home, and upon doing so the man burst to tears and claimed she'd 'fixed' him. She wasn't sure if he was being truthful or not, but the people around him broke into cheers and Abby had appreciated that feeling of joy all the same.

"Thank you, sweet thing, thank you," Mary cooed and held her boy, who couldn't have been any older than three or four, up to Abby's chest.

Abby leaned forth and brushed some dark hair from the child's brow. He stared at her quietly, a mixture of confusion and fear set into his dark blue eyes. "He's a very handsome boy," Abby said, smiling at the child. She moved her hand slowly and gently to his forehead and concentrated on calming him. She thought of a still lake, and now the gentle rolling green hills of Oolacile she'd seen in the photograph joined the image. She felt a surge of warmth in her hand and in her heart and a look of serenity came across the boy. She removed her hand and nodded to the woman holding him. "I'm sorry if that doesn't help."

"No, dear, don't you apologize. You are a sweet and kind girl for doing that, and you have my gratitude." Mary's eyes fell to her son's and she smiled heartily upon seeing him drifting to sleep. "Thank you," she whispered as tears swelled to the corners of her eyes.

"Alright, enough," Petrus barked. "This is a forbidden section of the library. Do _not _come back here again or Logan will hear about it. Understood?" The woman crossed the room with her child, strolling right past Petrus as if she hadn't heard him. His face reddened, but he collected himself and turned back to the room. "A word, Chester."

"I'm busy," Chester said casually, pulling another book from the shelf.

Petrus sighed. "There are rats in the walls."

Chester froze in place and Abby saw a queer look come to his dark eyes beneath the mask. He shelved the book and turned, and an unspoken exchange crossed from him to Petrus as they stared at one another. Abby looked between them, confused. Finally, Chester faced her, said, "My lady, I will be right back," and marched out of the room to follow Petrus.

_Rats in the walls? _Abby thought as she watched them vanish around the corner. _What does that mean?_After pondering the question for a moment, she decided whatever it was she'd work it out of Chester upon his return, and put the thought aside, choosing instead to pull a book labeled, '_Indigenous Life of the Swamplands_', thinking of Quelana as she read the title, and returning to the big chair in the corner of the room. She lowered herself between its cushioned armrests and laid her head back, peeling the front cover open and watching as a thin trail of dust from neglect spilled out. She thumbed through the first few blank pages, but by the time she'd reached the first _written _page, her eyes felt heavy. She closed them with the intention of giving herself only a moment of rest, but ended up drifting to sleep almost instantly.

There were dark things outside the castle walls and when she passed the windows, she could see them peering in at her; red eyes watching hungrily, watching _greedily_, whispering for her to come near so that they could smother her in their arms and take her away. Men with hollow faces and six pairs of arms protruding from their bodies like a spiders climbed the outer walls of the Archives, searching for holes to crawl in and come after her. The sky outside was black, the clouds purple and swollen with disease, and in that black sky she saw figures flying near. Lightning clashed and their form took on detail: hideous, winged, demons with fangs the size of shortswords and claws that raked madly at the skies around them. _They _wanted her to. Underground, skeleton hounds that grew as large as the Taurus Demon had been were burrowing tunnels up beneath her feet, waiting for her to misstep, waiting to drag her down beneath the floor and carry her away. A man in Anor Londo was beckoning to her to join him, but then he was a woman, giggling madly, and then he was a man again, and then he wasn't sure, and-

-she woke in the library, trembling so violently she'd shaken herself right out of the chair she'd dozed off in. Abby grabbed at her stomach, coughed twice, and then doubled over on her knees to vomit onto the floorboards. She hadn't been eating, and only an acidic bile ripped up through her throat, awakening an immense pain there. _Just stop trembling_, Abby told herself. _Stop trembling and you can crawl back to the chair. _She balled her hands into fists and took a deep breath that felt tainted by her own vomit. Slowly, the trembling came to a halt and she was able to rise on shaking legs high enough to collapse back into the chair. Cold sweat raced down her arms and brow, and when Abby closed her eyes, she felt the whole room spinning around her.

"Are you alright?" Chester's voice called.

She opened her eyes and fixed them on him. _He doesn't need to know, _a voice told her and she forced a smile. "Yes... just... fell asleep for a bit..."

"Nightmares...?" He asked, crossing the room to her and flipping around his mask once again.

"Yes," she admitted, but vowed not to speak on them any further if he asked.

He nodded, surveying her and, apparently, deciding she was alright. He turned and began sauntering around the edge of the room, glancing up at the top shelf of the bookcases. After a while, he reached up and pulled one loose. "Here's a good book, Abby," he said, bringing it to her.

She took it, making a conscious effort not to let her hand shake upon doing so, and quickly shifted the chair a bit to hide the faint dampness of the bile she's spit up on the carpeting beneath it. The book was titled '_The Age of Ancients'_, and a print of a monstrous, black, dragon soared upon its cover. "We learned about the 'Age of Ancients' in school," Abby told him. "I'll read this one later."

Chester nodded, but did not take the book back when she attempted to hand it to him. "I think dragons are terrible things," he said instead. "In _their _time in the world, Lordran was nothing but darkness and fogs and crags and canyons... and those things were the cause of it all. I wonder, Abby, what do _you _think of dragons?"

Abby considered it a moment. "I... I'm not sure. I know there was a great emptiness in the world when they ruled."

"A great and _terrible _emptiness," Chester added, sitting beside her on the edge of the table. "They're horrible beasts, Abby, that book will tell you that much. Beasts that aren't to be trusted."

Abby narrowed her eyes on his, avoiding looking at his dimpled chin. "Why are you asking me this?" She asked, then after a moment's thought, added, "Is this because of the 'rats in the walls'?"

Chester grinned. "You're as clever as you are beautiful, my lady."

Abby frowned. "You don't have to use secret talk around me, Chester. What's happened in the castle?"

Chester folded his hands in his lap and stared at them, seeming to consider his words carefully. When he spoke, he spoke slowly and deliberately. "Abby... there are those who don't believe in Logan. That don't believe in _you_. There are men and women in this very castle that are so _desperate _for some sense of... _belonging_ and _understanding _that they would turn to any mad theory thrown at their feet and gnaw at it like a starving dog to a bone." He paused, his eyes squinting slightly. "Well, a bone has been thrown in the castle. And the starving are feasting." He stared at Abby, seemingly awaiting a response. When she didn't give him one, he went on. "A covenant that worships dragons is... running wild here in the castle."

"Worships _dragons_... the Path of the Dragon, you mean?" Abby asked; they'd studied all sorts of different covenants in Vinheim.

"Yes," he confirmed. He held her eyes for a long moment before taking a breath and saying, "Abby, I believe these lunatics wish to assassinate you."

Abby's mouth fell agape. Her hands reached for her chest. "_Me? _But _why_? I've done nothing to anyone! I only wanted to help! I-"

"Shhhh," Chester shushed her, rubbing his gloved fingers along her cheek. "I won't let anyone harm you, my princess. You have my word. But you must understand that a time may come when these... _cultists _approach you. You must _not _trust them, no matter how kind they may ostensibly appear."

Abby was rubbing her chest, staring into the candle flame anxiously. "Who... do you know who they _are_?"

"We are working on ascertaining that information at this very moment," Chester told her. "If we _do _happen to catch one of them... Abby, they'll have to be hurt in order to find out who the others are. You understand that, don't you? Logan and myself and you, _you _especially, we aren't bad people."

"No, of course not!" Abby agreed immediately.

"We want whats _best _for Lordran."

"Yes," Abby said, nodding.

"And we will do what it _takes _to ensure Lordran is saved."

She hesitated. "Well..." She began, but Chester's fingers cupped her chin and pulled her head back, and he leaned forward. His lips pressed to hers and kissed. They were warm and moist and wonderful and Abby's heart pounded in her chest as they locked with her own. "Oh," she whispered when he'd pulled away, staring up into his dark eyes transfixed.

"We will do what it takes, won't we, Abby?"

"Yes," she answered immediately. "For Lordran," she added, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She rose from the chair and laid her hands upon his chest, her eyes flicking across the comely features of his face. He started to say something, but what it was she would never know.

She covered his mouth with her own and kissed him deeply.


	24. Chapter 24

Laurentius' quarters in the castle were not entirely dissimilar from those that Quelana had briefly shared with Abby. The pyromancer's room was long and wide and unencumbered by walls; the front section housing tables and cabinets and the rear section containing the hearth and bed separated only by a short fall of stone steps. Within the hearth, a fire quietly cooked a smattering of logs, filling the room with the faint sent of wood and painting the walls in red light and flickering shadows. The furnishing was much like the man himself: sparse and tidy and awash in dark colors. Some artists rendition of Izalith hung at the back wall, an enormous painting looming over the hearth, but Quelana, having spent a great portion of her life there, didn't think the painter had done it justice. The rocks weren't jagged enough, the fires not nearly as tall as they should have been, and the lakes of lava were a flat and dull shade of orange when they should have been bright and vibrant. Still, the painting brought her some sense of comfort, and it at least spoke to Laurentius' passion for the flame, though in _that_, she needed no further convincing.

The two of them had escaped Logan's mad dungeon the day before, and as Quelana sat reflecting on it, she realized how lucky they had truly been. The dungeon wrapped around the inner walls of the prison tower in a semi-circle before spilling out to a large and barred tunnel, and if it hadn't been for their combined efforts of pyromancy to melt a few of the bars away, they would have been captured there on the spot. _And Mother Izalith only knows what would have become of us then, _Quelana reflected, pulling her robes closer to her body as a chill took her spine. The tunnel had led them to an enclosed garden within the castle walls, and from there, Laurentius has snuck them back inside, through a maze of hallways (of which they had to hide several times in shadowed nooks and emptied rooms), and finally here, to his quarters. Quelana had been dreadfully tired, and-trusting the man the most she could having used her Undead Rapport to loosen his tongue-allowed herself a brief rest, of which Laurentius assured her heartily would go undisturbed.

It had, but now she was awake and alone in a castle that had, after witnessing the madness housed within Logan's dungeon, grown ominous and foreboding and _heavy _around her, like the cumbersome human clothing they'd bundled her up in at Domhnall's so long ago. Quelana dared not step outside the barred, wooden, door, and so she sat, judging the poor painting of her faraway home above the man's hearth and wondering what would become of both Abby and herself if they remained in the castle much longer.

Eventually, a rapping of knuckles rolled the outside of the door, the sound breaking such a long, deep, silence within that Quelana gasped and felt heat emanating from her fingertips as her inner flame instinctively came alive to protect her. "_Chaos,_" the muffled voice of Laurentius spoke from the other side: the code word he'd told her he'd use upon returning to ensure her it was him and acting of his own accord. Quelana rose and, after an anxious moment's hesitation, pulled the barring loose from the door. It swung back on its hinges, and Laurentius-_alone_, thankfully-stepped inside, quickly sealing the thing shut behind him.

"Mother of Pyromancy," he greeted, bowing reverently, "I hope you rested well."

"I rested," she answered, omitting the fact the sleep had been brief and poor. "What's happening out there? Is anyone aware it was _us_ who were in that insane dungeon? What of Abby? Is she safe?"

Laurentius lifted a hand to slow her questioned. "Mother of-"

"Don't call me that anymore," Quelana interrupted. "I shared my flame with humans, that much is true, but the crafting of it has been so refined and iterated upon over the years since, it is hardly my '_child_'. Just answer my questions."

Laurentius swallowed, clearly perturbed he'd upset her, and motioned to the grouping of soft-backed chairs gathered around the hearth. She sighed, quickly crossed to them, and sat, awaiting impatiently for him to join beside her. "Something to drink, Moth- er, Quelana?" He asked before seating.

"No," she answered. "Sit down and answer me."

Laurentius bowed, apologized, and seated himself across from her, pulling a fresh log from a pile beside the hearth and depositing it within. "No one is aware you nor I were inside Logan's dungeon," he said, unsheathing a fire iron from a rack and poking the log deeper into the flames. "For that much, we can be grateful."

"What do we have to be _un_grateful for?"

"They're hunting us," Laurentius said, turning to face her, his mouth set in a hard line above his bearded chin. "Logan has been suspicious of the Path of the Dragon living within the walls of his castle for some time now. He caught two of our brothers and our sister in prayer a few days before you and I arrived and banished them to die out in the cold. No supplies were afforded them when they left, well, no _official _supplies. Some brothers and myself snuck them what we could."

"What do you mean they're _hunting _us?" Quelana questioned.

"It is at is sounds. Logan's issued a reward to his entire guard, Petrus, and even the knight Solaire, to bring him the heads of anyone suspected of worshiping dragons."

Quelana sat quietly for a moment, mulling the man's words over. "Yet you claim he doesn't know who any of the members are?"

"No. Not that I know of, at least."

"How do you slip something like that by a man like him?" Quelana asked. "His power seems... unnatural. And the sorcerer in that dungeon, Griggs, claimed Logan could sense a person's mere _presence_."

"You avoid him," Laurentius said, nodding his head and staring into the hearth; the flames casting flickering twin reflections upon his eyes. "As _I_ have. I won't go near the man. Chasing you into his dungeon was the closest I've come since meeting him. I've remained on his council from afar, and the only reason so is because of my knowledge of pyromancy. I've, regrettably, had to befriend Chester and the Knight of Thorns to remain informed of Logan's... more _secretive _actions."

"Is Abby in danger?" Quelana asked. Laurentius sighed, and Quelana felt her skin crawl. "She is, isn't she? What are they going to do to her!? Tell me!"

"The girl is, in a way, safe," the pyromancer quickly said, trying to lay a reassuring hand upon her own, but Quelana pulled it away and stared intently at him til he continued. "But Logan is... _securing _her loyalty to his cause, whatever _mad _cause it may be."

"How?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Laurentius admitted. "But I know he's ordered Chester to spend an abnormal amount of time with the girl. If I had to guess... he's set the man's charms upon her. Chester is, unfortunately, very _talented_ in that skill. He's likely working to make the girl fall in love with him."

"Fall in _love_?" Quelana snapped. "That's ridiculous. Abby isn't so foolish to be manipulated that easily. She is-"

"-she is _alone_, my lady," Laurentius interjected. "And she is afraid. And young. And, most importantly, she is _vulnerable. _Logan's no fool either. He knows these things, and he is acting accordingly to win her loyalty to his side."

"But what does he _want _with her!?" Quelana demanded. "If he has no intentions of lighting the Kiln of the First Flame..."

"My lady, Abby has already done more for Logan in the brief time she's been here than _any _of us have. She has turned the men and women inside these walls back to his side. He was losing his grip on them, despite all of his mad spells and clever tricks, he was _losing _them. And now he's shown them hope in the form of the girl, and the closer he is _associated_ with that hope, the more loyal they will remain to him."

"I won't allow her to be used like some... _slave_!" Quelana shouted.

"Please keep your voice down, my lady," Laurentius pleaded. "And I _agree _with you! The _Order _agrees with you. We want to see the girl away from Logan as much as you, but our moves in this little game Logan plays must be calculated, not rash. And _now_... now we must remain more careful than ever with this hunt of his active."

_The higher the odds stack against you, the more easily it becomes to fool your opponent, _Quelana heard Lautrec's voice speak in her head. He'd said that somewhere along their travels in their brief time together, and upon remembering it, she found herself wishing he was there beside her. He was a stubborn and cold-hearted man, but he was a leader, _that _she could not deny. Whatever quality he possessed, whatever _flame _burned in his eyes that could command men to his will, the pyromancer before her lacked. Laurentius was a descent man, now that she'd gotten to the truth of his intentions, but he was plain of both face and voice, and seemed far too cautious to take the bold sort of actions Lautrec would have to secure Abby's saftey.

"My lady...?" Laurentius questioned.

Quelana realized she'd been staring at him without speaking for quite some time. "It's nothing," she answered quickly. "So... what is our next move?"

"I've called a meeting of our brethren," he explained. "They'll be here shortly. We will discuss that very question."

"_Your _brethren," Quelana corrected. "I certainly stand at your side in this mad conflict, but I do _not _share your devotion to... whatever dragon God you worship."

Laurentius stared at her, the hearth fire casting dancing shadows upon his face. "My lady... it is the Eternal Dragon in the Great Hollow we worship. When we leave this cursed castle and escape the clutches of Logan's wicked hands, we will begin our pilgrimage there. A pilgrimage that will lead us right through _Blighttown_. I know you wish to return there. You spoke of it several times on our travel here from the Burg."

"This is... true," she admitted, careful to guard any sense of longing. She'd learned a long time ago that when humans discovered your desires, they wielded them against you to bend you to their will.

"You willreturn home," Laurentius told her, smiling. "But by the time we make it there, you will see that salvation lies only upon the Path, and I promise you, you _will _walk it with us."

"And if I don't?" She questioned, thinking of how Lautrec and Patches had taken her in ropes from the swamps the _last _time she refused to leave them. The memory felt like a lifetime ago.

Laurentius shrugged. "We don't pass judgement on those who don't share our faith. Every man and woman must walk their own Path. All we can hope for is to show them _ours _is the truest."

"And what comes at the _end _of this path of yours?"

"Transcendence, my lady," Laurentius said, his smile broadening. "Those who walk the Path of the Dragon to its end will shed their human form and become a dragon themselves, and then we will fly and soar and it will be _us _who gives birth to the new age of Lordran."

_They're mad_, Quelana realized. _A different, perhaps more _gentle, _form of madness than Logan's, but mad all the same. _She forced an uneasy smile at Laurentius, matching his own. _I will aid them in freeing Abby, and then the two of us will flee _them _as well. _

A gentle knock, as the pyromancer's was before, came rapping upon the door. Laurentius stood, gesturing for Quelana to remain seated, and crossed the room to meet it. He asked who it was, and a muffled voice answered, "_Chaos_.". The door came unbarred and the largest man Quelana had ever seen came lumbering in, ducking his head beneath the doorway so as not to clip it. He was burly, a suit of black iron encasing his enormous body, and yet his unhelmed face looked soft and kind as he smiled upon Laurentius and the two shook hands. The man's bushy eyebrows raised as he spotted Quelana beside the hearth, and Laurentius was quick to lead him over.

"My lady, this is my brother, Tarkus; or as they call him _'Black Iron _Tarkus'," Laurentius explained, presenting the massive man beside him.

Tarkus stepped forth as Quelana rose, his shoulders standing higher than the top of her head, and took her hand in his own. She felt as if he could crush her bones with a squeeze, but he was gentle, rubbing his thumb along her knuckles with a surprising tenderness, and when she looked to his face, a big, toothy, grin awaited her in greeting beneath those bushy eyebrows. "Hello," he bellowed, a voice as deep and rumbling as she'd expected. "I've heard about you, my lady. You are as beautiful as they say."

"Th-thank you," Quelana stammered, still worried he'd accidentally break her hand.

He didn't. Instead, he released it and lowered his big frame into a chair near the hearth; his legs so long, his knees were up to his chest once he was fully seated. He laid an enormous greatsword beside the chair, the hilt of which looked custom built for his big hands. The blade was chipped in some places, stained with the blood of those foolish enough to face the man in others.

"You are... very large," Quelana said, taking a seat across from him.

Tarkus frowned, as if confused, and looked down at his own body. When his eyes landed there, he gasped and his bushy brows rose in surprise. "I _am _very large! Why, I'm the biggest man I've ever seen!"

Quelana narrowed her eyes, unsure if he was being cruel with her or not.

A rumble of hearty laughter escaped his lips and informed her he was not. "I jest, my lady. Yes, I am big. I promise you, though, I am as gentle a man as any you've met and likely even more so. As long as your on _my_ side that is," he added, pointing a thick finger in her direction. When she eyed it warily, his face broke to laughter again, the sound rumbling through the room. "She's a serious one, isn't she?"

"Aye," Laurentius confirmed, holding his eyes upon Quelana. She spotted that longing in his face again, that _desire _for her that he'd confessed when under her spell, and quickly turned from him, growing uncomfortable.

Another knock came at the door, and this time when Laurentius went and received his code word and removed the heavy barring blocking the entrance, a woman much smaller than Tarkus exchanged a friendly nod of her head with the pyromancer and walked inside. As she neared the fire, Quelana examined her. The woman wore white robes and a white hood, white boots and white gloves, and Quelana knew then she must have been Rhea of Thorolund. Her pupils-in some other life, she supposed-had spoken of the woman on occasion and her maiden outfit. She was a priestess who, Quelana _thought_, belonged to the Way of White covenant; a group of clerics and knights joined by the art of miracle-casting.

Tarkus rose upon her entrance to the grouping of chairs around the hearth, and the giant man greeted her with a smile and a bow. "Rhea," he greeted.

"Hello Tarkus," she returned. Her eyes fell to Quelana. "And you're the witch. Oh, I apologize. That was rude of me. You're not a witch, well, I mean you _are, _but... it isn't proper to greet someone in such a manner. Perhaps, well, let me try again. I am Rhea, of Thorolund, and I've heard... quite a bit about you, Quelana._"_

Quelana nodded, watching the woman's eyes peering out from beneath her maiden's hood, wondering what the priestess expected her to say.

"Well, I welcome you to our little group here," Rhea went on when it was clear Quelana wasn't going to talk. "We are some of the few people left willing to hold a beacon of light in a world shrouded in darkness. If you have need of healing or, perhaps, some other miracle, you need only let me know and my talisman will sing for you as it has for many others. Not that I'm insinuating you are _weak_ or anything. I only wish, well, to make you feel... welcome among us. Perhaps-"

"Rhea," Tarkus said, and when the woman looked to him, he smirked.

"Oh, yes, I suppose, well, I ramble at times," she said, some color flushing in her cheeks. "I welcome you to our group. May your feet find the Path as ours have and walk it true."

"Aye," Tarkus agreed.

"Aye," Laurentius added.

The sound of knocking filled the room once again. This time, _two _figures stood in the doorway once Laurentius had unbarred it, and Quelana remembered him saying their numbers only counted five inside the castle walls, and so, she presumed, this was the last of them. The first one through was a young man in dark woolen clothing, black gloves and boots, and a small round cap atop his short and uncombed hair. "Bloody hell, pyro," he complained, stepping into the room. "Could you have picked a more _dreadful _time to call this meeting? You know, some of us still like to do that thing where you close your eyes for a bunch of hours and then you feel a whole lot better? What's that called? Oh, right, _sleeping_." He marched across the room, sweeping a long nod to Tarkus and Rhea. When his eyes landed on Quelana, he frowned. "This is her, huh? You don't look like no fire witch to me. But then, I guess I never seen no fire witch. Just thought you'd be, well, sort of ugly or maybe horns poking out of your head or something."

"This _rude _young man is Rickert of Vinheim," Rhea said, fixing him with a look of admonishment.

"Aye," he said, sticking out his hand. Quelana slowly took it, and when she had, he lowered himself, squinting beneath her hood to get a better look at her. "Well, you ain't ugly at all, are ya? She's quite pretty, huh?" Then, over his shoulder, "Good find, pyro."

_They're all in such good spirits, _Quelana thought, pulling her hand free from the young man's grip and tightening the hood of her cloak to better conceal her face. _Perhaps there is some validity to their mad worship of the dragons. _She looked back to Laurentius, but what she saw instead caused her mouth to fall agape. The last member of their covenant to enter the room was a woman in dingy, tarnished, grey robes with a bun of strawberry-blonde hair atop her rather nervous-looking face. Quelana recognized her instantly as the firekeeper, Anastacia of Astora.

Rickert, who was still watching Quelana, turned from her reaction to Anastacia and back. "Don't bother trying to chat with _that _one. Woman's said less than ten words since joining up with us. Lot of good putting the tongue back in her mouth did, ey Tark?"

Quelana faced him, frowning. "You're saying she has a _tongue_?"

"Logan returned it to her," Rhea answered, seating herself next to Tarkus, looking comically small beside him. "No one knows how, but I imagine it was some terrible spell of his. _I _wouldn't be surprised if there's a catch to it all. Maybe, well, maybe that's _why _she doesn't speak very much. Perhaps she can't? A terrible life to lead, I imagine. There was one time when-"

"If only _you'd _catch that spell, Rhea," Rickert teased the priestess and flopped down beside Quelana.

Rhea's face reddened, but she offered no retort.

Laurentius barred the door shut once more, took Anastacia's arm in his own, and crossed to the rest of them, walking her carefully, as if she would collapse without him. As the firekeeper drew near to the fire, Quelana saw the lines of her face were drawn wearily, and her eyes were locked on the flame within the hearth. _What could drive a man to want to murder you? _Quelana wondered as Laurentius sat the firekeeper down at a bench set slightly away from the group. She folded her hands in her lap and dropped her gaze to the floor.

Laurentius himself entered the group and sat in a big chair opposite the hearth itself. "Brothers, sisters," he began, "I'd like to introduce you, formally, to Quelana, Mother of-er, well, _one of _the creators of pyromancy, Daughter of Chaos, and Descendant of the Great Witch Izalith herself. I'd ask you to be as warm and kind to her as you've been to each other, for I have traveled with her and spoken with her at length and I judge her descent."

"Yeah, we've all been introduced, firefingers," Rickert said. "So let's get on with it then, hm? Calling a meeting like this isn't exactly the safest idea you've had. Have we all forgotten what happened _last _time a few of us got together?"

Rhea's face darkened. "Nico and Vince... may the Eternal Dragon watch over them... wherever they are. They were good men, _just _men! It wasn't right of Logan to cast them out as if they were common thieves or, or, _murderers _or something!" When the woman saw Quelana staring at her, her look softened and she went on, "They were my sworn protectors. We joined up with Laurentius at the same time. Logan's men caught them in prayer to the Eternal Dragon, and, well, tossed them out."

"Not just Logan's men, but _Petrus_," Tarkus said with a shake of his large head. "Betrayed by your own guardian... my heart goes out to you, Rhea."

"Thank you," she said, nodding demurely. "I know if they walk the Path true, though, they will be safe. Perhaps, well, perhaps they've made the pilgrimage to the Great Hollow already?" She turned back to Quelana. "You didn't see two men and a woman with red hair in your travels, did you? The men would've been, well, rather heavy-set. The woman, er, _mouthy _and a bit obnoxious if you want the truth of it."

"No," Quelana said.

The four of them were staring at her as if she should continue. When she didn't, Rickert snorted laughter and said, "Geeze, what's with you fire-women? First Anastacia, now you too? Don't you ever have anything to say? You _have _to say something or Rhea will do enough talking for the both of you."

"Leave her be," Laurentius told him. "She's upset about the girl. As we _all _should be."

"Aye," Tarkus agreed. "That poor little thing with her hair all shaved off... Unfortunate that Logan set his mad sights on her."

"Maybe, maybe not," Rickert said, licking his lips and casting a sly grin on the group.

"What is _that _supposed to mean?" Rhea questioned.

"Means that if the girl can be turned to _our _side, we can use her against him," Rickert explained. "Hell, she might even be able to get close enough to assassinate the monster."

"She won't take a life," Quelana said, and again the whole group looked to her as if she were some exotic creature sitting amongst them. She felt pressured to continue, so she gathered herself and did. "I traveled with Abby for quite a few days and nights. The girl doesn't have a wicked bone in her body. She is sweet and kind and wants only to see Lordran saved."

"Oh, that's wonderful," Rhea cooed, holding her hands to her chest and smiling.

"Won't be wonderful if Logan poisons the girl's mind like he did Havel's," Rickert said.

"Havel..." Tarkus said quietly, glancing into the hearth fire with a wistful look. "I never seen a man as insane as he was after his and Logan's duel."

"That's why rescuing and protecting Abby should be our top priority," Laurentius said. "She is _Chosen_, and though we may not share the same views for Lordran's future, her heart is pure and should _remain _so."

"I agree," Rhea said. "But, Laurentius, if this hunt you've told us about is true... we are _all _at risk now."

"I hear that detestable Knight of Thorns, Kirk, is vying for captain of the guard," Tarkus said. "He wants to take the title from Solaire. I'd hate to imagine this place being trained and run by _him_."

"Where is Solaire?" Quelana asked, looking around the group. "I traveled with him as well. He seemed a good and noble knight."

"Solaire _is _good and noble," Tarkus agreed with a hearty nod of his head.

"Yes and about as sharp as a dull blade," Rickert added. "The knight is blinded by his own chivalrous loyalty. He will never turn from Logan."

"Logan saved his life," Rhea said. "You can't blame him for remaining loyal to the man after that. If he is made aware of what a monster the man truly is, I'm sure he will not continue to support his cause."

"That's just it," Rickert went on. "He'll _never _see what a monster Logan is because to him, Logan is the 'savior of Lordran'. The knight is lost. Forget about him and let us move to a topic actually _worth _discussing."

"Such as?" Tarkus asked.

"Such as _killing _Logan," Rickert answered. "If this girl, Abby, won't do it, one of us will have to."

"You're mad," Tarkus said with a chuckle. "The man is never ten steps from his golem army."

"Then we kill his damned golems too."

"I've _fought _with golems, young man," Tarkus said, thumping his greatsword off the carpeted floor. "Have you? They don't exactly just lay down and die when you tell them to."

"Logan has things worse than golems," Quelana interjected, turning the two arguing men's faces to her own. "When I was in his dungeon-"

"You were _down _there!?" Rhea cried out. "Oh, my, Laurentius you didn't tell us _that_!"

"I wanted us to gather so I didn't have to retell the tale four times," the pyromancer explained.

"We were down there," Quelana went on. "He has a half-woman, half-dragon hybrid locked up in a hole! He has a wolf that came upon us in the Darkroot Garden that had _doubled _in size since arriving here. And he has..." Quelana took a breath to steady her anger. "He has _children_ locked up down there."

"You _saw _the children?" Tarkus asked, his bushy brow rising hopefully. "They live then?"

She nodded.

"Oh, thank Father Eternal," Rhea said, slumping in her chair as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. "We worried so dearly about those little ones. Andre and Sieglinde took a group of children with them when they left for the Burg. Oh, I do hope _they _are alright too, even if they didn't share our devotion to the Path."

"They were heading after Domhnall," Laurentius said. "Quelana said she spent two nights with the merchant in a home he'd made in the Burg."

"More good news," Rhea said cheerfully. "I miss Domhnall as dearly as a lost brother. The castle grew a bit darker the day he departed. ...if only we'd known how right he was about Logan _then_."

"Domhnall is a survivor," Tarkus said. "I knew he'd be alright. Andre and Sieglinde, too. Although... poor Sieglinde. She'll be devastated to hear about her father."

Laurentius' face darkened. "Yes... I only wish I hadn't bore witness to such a disgusting display of cruelty, and then having to go _along _with the rest of them as if I enjoyed it." He lifted his head to the group and fixed them each with a confident look in turn. "Can we agree that the knight Kirk must die before we depart this castle."

"Aye, you can be sure of it," Tarkus said with a nod.

"His judgement should remain in the hands of the Eternal Dragon," Rhea said. "But... I certainly won't stop any of you from hurting the vile man."

"Should stick his own bloody barbed sword up his arse," Rickert said with a laugh. "See if he spits the barbs out after. Heh."

"How crude," Rhea said, fixing him with a reproachful look.

"What about this girl, Abby?" Tarkus said. "Do any of you have any ideas how to get her away from that damnable Chester? The man seems to be with her day and night."

"I could provide distraction," Laurentius said. "He and Kirk both still trust me. I could gather a meeting at a fixed time and place, _away _from the girl."

"Let me go to her," Quelana said quickly before the others could offer. "Please. I know her. She will listen to me."

"Her mind may be already starting to go, Quelana," Laurentius explained. "The girl you come across might not be the same as the one you remember..."

"The witch has the right of it, though," Rickert pointed out. "Better _her _than any of _us_. The girl doesn't even know the rest of us. What would she think if we came running up spewing some tale of Logan's madness?"

"She's think _we're _the mad ones," Rhea agreed with a nod of her head. "Yes. Send Quelana."

Laurentius nodded, stroking at his beard and staring into the hearth. "That settles that matter then. I will provide you the opening. It will be up to you to convince the girl from there. But, Quelana, if you feel the girl is... being dishonest with you, or perhaps trying to lead you into a trap of some sort-"

"That's ridiculous," Quelana cut him off.

"I just want you to be prepared to flee," Laurentius pressed on. "If Logan gets his hands on you..." He grimaced. "I don't want to even _imagine _what he'd do."

"It won't come to that," Quelana assured him. "Even if Abby refused to come with me, she wouldn't betray me to Logan."

Laurentius stared at her. "On that... I hope you are right."

Rhea twiddled her gloved thumbs in her lap. "If you _do _save the girl... then all we have to do is retrieve those missing children, save _them_, and then get as far away from this cursed castle as we can before Logan realizes it."

"The children were alive," Quelana said. "But... not conscious. They looked to be either sedated with some potion or under some spell. Their eyes were rolled back into their heads. They looked like they had a blue tint to them as well."

Shrewd looks were exchanged all around the group, but no one offered any theories. Quelana glanced over her shoulder at Anastacia sitting quietly by herself. _Tell Anastacia I tried, _Lautrec's words rung in her ear; the departing message he'd given her the day Patches murdered him on the bridge.

"If Andre hadn't left," Tarkus broke the silence, "we'd be in better shape. That man knew every shortcut in this bloody castle. Blacksmiths... all they seem to want is to know how every damned thing is put together."

"Well Andre is gone, so a lot of bloody good that does us," Rickert said. "When we're ready to leave, I say we stroll right out the front gate. Who's going to stop us?"

"Perhaps the _archers _and _crossbowmen _Petrus had stationed atop the wall when Solaire left," Rhea said, frowning. "Don't be foolish. The front gate is too risky."

"_Every _path is going to be risky, priestess," Rickert retorted.

"Then we find the _least _risky one," Rhea snapped back. "Remember, we'll have _children _with us!"

"Perhaps a second meeting is in order," Laurentius said, putting an end to their bickering. "For now, Quelana and myself will focus on removing Abby from Logan's hold. We'll meet again when the task is done. Sound good?"

A smattering of muttered agreement went around the group, and when Laurentius clasped his hands together and stood, the rest stood with him. "Short meeting," Rickert said. He was the first to step to the door. "But interesting nonetheless." He bowed his head, cracked the door to steal a glance outside, and exited. A moment later, his knuckles rapped the outside.

When Quelana frowned curiously, Rhea explained, "That means its clear for the next to leave. It was nice meeting you, Quelana. I look forward to our next encounter. May Father Eternal watch over you," she said, smiling and departing herself. Like Rickert before her, she rapped at the door.

"Stay safe, the lot of you," Tarkus said, the big man ducking outside and signaling it was clear with a knock.

Anastacia moved to cross the room, but Quelana took hold of her arm. "Lady Anastacia, I'd like you to hang back. I wish to speak with you alone."

Anastacia's looked at her as if she were speaking a different language. Her brow creased nervously and she looked, desperate for help, to Laurentius.

"She is a friend of mine, Ana. You can trust her," he said. "I will return in half an hours time." He nodded to Quelana, bowed to Anastacia, and left.

Alone, Quelana kept her grip on the firekeeper's arm, not tight enough to harm her, certainly, but tight enough to let her know she wasn't making a run for it. "Will you sit with me a moment?" Quelana asked, softening her words the most she could so as not to frighten the woman.

Anastacia looked fearfully from Quelana to the door to the chair. She swallowed, took a breath, and sat. Quelana released her arm and sat across from her. The firekeeper lowered her head timidly and tugged at the hem of her dingy robe. Quelana watched her for a moment before saying, "I have a message for you."

Ana's head lifted, her dark blue eyes filled with a terrible dread.

"But I'd like to know a bit about you first," Quelana went on. "Is it true you have a tongue?"

The firekeeper bit her lip, stole a nervous glance to the door over Quelana's shoulder once again, and swallowed. "Yes," her voice came so quietly, Quelana barely heard her. "Please... don't make me use it. It is a wicked thing and I don't wish to use it."

_She sounds on the verge of tears_, Quelana thought, eyeing the woman up curiously. "I mean you no harm. You have nothing to fear." She considered her next words carefully. "Why do you say your tongue is a wicked thing?"

Anastacia shook her head, but offered no reply.

"Please..." Quelana pressed her.

Ana was quiet for a long moment then, and just when Quelana had assumed she wasn't going to answer, she said, "It is murderous. It is responsible for the loss of many innocent lives. I'm sorry. Please, I don't... I can't..." Her voiced shook and her hands trembled.

Quelana reached across the short gap between them and took the woman's hand in her own. "It's alright," she assured her. "Do you want to know something about _me_?" She took a deep breath, readying herself to relive the terrible tale of Izalith. "When I was younger, my home was engulfed in chaos. My mother was deformed into some demonic monstrosity, and the plague began spreading through my lands and devouring my sisters as well. My older sister, Quelaag, took up arms and made to fight the chaos. My other sister, Quelaan, stood beside her. One of my sisters actually ventured _into _the madness to try and save our mother. Our sweet brother... he was taken by the chaos and twisted into a ceaseless pit of anguish and despair. And do you know what _I _did? I ran. I fled from my home, my mother, my sisters, my brother, and I never looked back. They died or suffered a fate worse than death, and I live on. There is a pain in you, human. I see it in your eyes. You think you're alone in understanding whatever suffering you're experiencing, but you're not. I live with a torment of my very _soul_. And I live with it every day."

Anastacia was quietly staring at her, her mouth slightly agape, tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. She sat that way for a long time before, finally, she replied, "Then... you and I are not so different... I suppose."

"No," Quelana said quietly, amazed at how much pain speaking of her family could cause her still to this day.

"My family was taken, too," Anastacia said. "But in my story... it was _my _fault." She sniffled and wiped the corners of her eyes. "I was born into a wealthy family. We... were happy. But we had enemies. Enemies that... wanted my father dead. My father was a knight, and poised to become the next great general of Carim's army."

"Carim?" Quelana questioned. "I thought you hailed from Astora?"

Ana managed the weakest of smiles. "I lie. It's... a very old lie and I tell it well but it is a lie nonetheless. I wanted to distance myself from Carim after... what I did." She swiped at a fresh trail of tears that had began racing down her cheeks. "They captured me. My father's enemies, I mean. They caught me walking home from school. They... hurt me very badly." She whimpered, swallowed, forced herself to go on. "And in the end, I told them how to get into the castle where my family lived. There was a secret passage... and I... I told them..."

She lowered her face into her hands and sobbed and Quelana stood, crossed the gap, and sat beside her, draping the woman's shoulder in her arm. "Shhh," she hushed, rocking the woman gently. "It's alright. You don't have to tell me anymore. If I'd known how painful this would be..."

"They burned them," Anastacia went on anyway. "They burned my mother and my father alive in their bed. Then, while my parent's screams still filled the castle walls, they slaughtered my older brother and sister in _their _bedrooms."

"I'm... so sorry," Quelana said, wishing she could offer the woman more than just words.

"The only ones left in my entire family after the slaughter were myself... and my younger brother."

Quelana had asked the knight of Carim once what he killed Anastacia over, love or hatred. _Both_, had been his answer after a long silence. _Both_. She understood now, all at once, she understood. _They look so alike, _Quelana thought. _How hadn't I seen it before?_

"The assassins fled," Anastacia went on. "And I was left to my father's guard. I confessed immediately. I... I could barely _see _the tears in my eyes were so thick. It was my fault... I was looking at the charred corpses of my parents and it was _my _fault. Then they brought my brother in..." She clasped her trembling hands together and breathed as if she were running out of air. "He was all I had. Everything gone in an instant because of my one, foolish, mistake, and the only thing left to me was my brother. I asked him as my father's guard held me on my knees before him if he could ever forgive me. He told me... he told me he couldn't." She took a moment to clear her throat. "And I told him to kill me... what point was there in living when there nothing left to me worth living _for_. I begged him to end my life right there in the room, and perhaps he would've, but my father's guard had other plans for me. They told me death was too kind a fate for what I'd done. They took my tongue so I could never use it to cause pain again and sent me off to the witches and sorcerers at Vinheim to bind me to the flame, to turn me into a firekeeper, so that I would live with my regret, my mistake, my suffering... _forever_."

The tears had stopped coming from the woman, and only a hollow, empty, look remained on her face as she stared into the hearth. Quelana's throat had run dry. The story had been so horrifying, she could barely muster words herself. "I... I am so sorry."

Anastacia nodded, but did not speak.

_I must tell her, _Quelana thought. "Anastacia... I met and traveled with your brother."

The woman turned to her, a strange mix of emotion suddenly springing life into her face. "Is he... alive?"

Quelana shook her head. "No... I don't think so. He was-"

Anastacia buried her face in her hands again and a fresh wave of sobs came muffled from within.

Quelana frowned. "Are you... _saddened_ by this?"

Ana pulled her face from her hands and looked at Quelana as if she were mad. "Of _course _I'm sad! Lautrec... he was my baby brother!"

_And all she had left_, Quelana realized, feeling foolish for even questioning the woman. "As I said, he left me with a message. What were the last words you spoke to him?"

She sniffled. "I asked for... for his forgiveness."

Quelana nodded. "He told me to tell you: _he tried_."

Those two simple words, more than anything the woman had said previously, more than any repressed memory she'd lived through, or pain she'd brought back to the surface, _those_ words brought a look of such sorrow to her face, Quelana thought she was going to collapse. She nearly _did_, but Quelana took hold of her, and Anastacia fell to her shoulder, crying and clutching desperately to her robes. Quelana tightened her hold on the woman and held her like that.

Neither of them spoke for a long, long, time.


	25. Chapter 25

The sight of Logan's 'soldiers' lined before him was not a reassuring one, standing there atop the Archive's upper wall in their mismatches scraps of armors; iron for those who had the strength to bear it, leather for those who did not, and _neither _for the unlucky few that came after the supplies had run short. The swords of those who wielded them were so dull they might as well have been pointed clubs, and the shields Solaire had handed out were weak, wooden, things that would stop an arrow well enough, but if anything heavier fell atop their cracked surface, they looked ready to burst and splinter. The men with the skill to wield a bow seemed the lucky ones, but even _they _were facing a rather limited supply of arrows, and when those ran out, they'd be left only with their pitiful daggers to defend themselves.

_These are not warriors_, Solaire thought, forcing a smile to his face so his thoughts would not show. _These are men too old to fight proper, and boys too young to know any better. And women... _He turned on the left flank, where a group of four women stood in attention. They looked small, practically drowning in the big coats of leather armors around them, but their was at least an intensity in their eyes, a _burning_, and that was more than Solaire could say for some of the men. The knights and soldiers of the world had all vanished over the years, either gone hollow and joined up in Anor Londo, or killed in action, and _this _was what remained to defend the last people of Lordran; a smattering of elderly and teenagers and women, of whom Solaire was expected to train. _Sun protect us in the coming days, _he thought, stepping forth to address them. _Or perhaps speed Logan's work so none need die at least._

Solaire cleared his throat. "Hello," he said, but the word sounded awkward, and not one of the four dozen gathered before him returned the greeting. He swallowed, collected himself, and went on anyway. "Many of you know me, some of you don't. I am Knight Solaire, Warrior of the Sun, captain of Logan's guard, and your instructor today."

A brief, unenthusiastic, clap came from the very back of the crowd. Solaire raised his head to peer over the heads of his trainees and found the Knight of Thorns, Kirk, leaning against the parapets there; his helmet removed and clutched at his side, a sardonic smirk on his face.

Solaire's face reddened, but he ignored the man and went on with his speech. "As you all know, the Duke's Archives are the last hold of humanity in Lordran, and as such it must be protected dearly should any harm wish to befall it. Our foes gather in the city of Anor Londo to the East. They are numerous and they are ferocious, but they lack what we have, and that is the guidance of Logan's brilliant mind, the castle walls themselves, and, of course, the sun watching over us. Praise it, my friends. Praise the Sun." He awaited for them to return to words, and when they did not, Kirk's taunting laughter filled the silence instead.

"It's bloody freezing up here," a voice complained, and when Solaire looked to its owner, he spotted Rickert of Vinheim, one of the few sorcerers that remained to the castle (most of them had gone mad either before or during the Great Cold). Rickert wrapped his arms to his body and frowned. "Can't we do this _in_side?"

Solaire gestured to the sun at his back, and though, admittedly, the chunk of pale, white, light behind the swirling twists of snow that ever-plagued the sky these days was not the bolstering presence it had once been, it was a presence nonetheless. "We stand beneath the mighty Sun, Rickert. Let its light be your blanket."

Rickert's youthful face did not look placated. He mimed draping an invisible blanket over his shoulders. "Oh, that's much better," he said dryly.

Solaire ignored the young man and turned to the wall behind him. He approached the parapets there, leaning out over them and pointing the way east. "Look here, my friends. I also wanted you all gathered here so that you could see the very real threat awaiting us, should we be unprepared to face it. Come. Join me." Slowly, they did. Solaire offered nods of gratitude as the crowd filled in around him, leaning out to peer down the maddening fall of the Archive's eastern wall. There, somewhat obscured by the heavy snowfall, the city of Anor Londo in all its glorious display of architecture awaited.

"I don't see anything," an old man with a few strands of grey hair left to his liver-spotted head muttered.

"To be fair, you don't see much of _any_thing these days, Norm," Rickert said, grinning. "Hey - how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Piss off, boy."

Solaire cleared a dusting of snow free from the parapet beside him and narrowed his eyes onto the distant shapes of the city. It was true: the hollows could not be seen, but they _were _there. They could be spotted on occasion, moving in groups of half a dozen from building to building. Logan believed they were holed up in the Great Cathedral, but if they _were_, they had left the entrance clear. "There!" Solaire shouted, spotting movement. "Look, by the bridge leading to the cathedral!" The curious faces of the 'soldiers' followed his outstretched finger. The vague outline of two torch-bearing hollows could be made out amidst the snows, crossing the bridge in a rush.

"You sure we need an _army _for them two?" Rickert asked.

"Oh, stop it already," a woman scolded him, and Solaire craned his neck to see the priestess, Rhea, fixing the sorcerer with a dark look.

"Lady Rhea," Solaire greeted, smiling. "I didn't see you before." In truth, Solaire found it quite strange that both Rhea and Rickert were here at all. Rhea was a cleric, after all, and if war should come to the castle, she'd be well guarded, healing the wounded that fell back in retreat. _Perhaps she seeks the peace of mind that she could defend herself, should it come to that_, Solaire thought.

"Hello, Solaire," Rhea said, returning the smile.

"You know," Kirk's voice came from behind the crowd. "If you lot grouped up and tossed the old knight there over the side of the wall, you could all go back inside where its _warm_." He laughed.

"I'd sooner see _you _thrown over," Rhea muttered, and Rickert chortled beside her.

Solaire saw Kirk's look darken immediately. He pushed off the rear parapet and growled balefully, "What did you say to me?"

"Look! There's more!" A short man at the far end of the crowd with curly, blond, hair shouted. The crowd turned to follow his pointed finger, but Solaire held his gaze on Kirk. The big man in his dark armor squinted first at Rhea, then at Solaire himself before finally spitting to the snow-caked floor of the wall and disappearing back inside the guard tower.

"Where?" A rather stout woman at the knight's side questioned.

"_There_!" The blond man insisted, shaking his finger.

Solaire traced it down to the city, where the two torch-bearers from before had made their way down a narrow ledge that wrapped around the side of the Great Cathedral and were standing in wait for a _second _group of hollows to come and remove the barring from a gate blocking their path, increasing their numbers to seven. They were as small as insects from that far away and still foggy behind the wall of snowfall, but they were _there_. That much could not be denied. "You see?" Solaire said. "Our enemies hide in the buildings of the city, but they will not hide forever."

"How many are there, Solaire?" Henrik, who'd previously been his squire and now belonged to Petrus, asked.

"Many," Solaire answered.

"As in, he don't know," Rickert added.

"How could _anyone _know, Rickert," said Rhea. "We know there are a lot of them. Many of us here had seen them flocking to the city on our travels here to the Archives. Many _more _have lost dear friends or family in the vile creatures' warpath.

"Aye," a man said with a wistful nod of his head, and a muttering of somber agreement from the crowd followed.

"See," Rhea said. "We know how dangerous the things are. The Knight Solaire is a good man for taking his time to prepare us for such."

"Thank you, my lady," Solaire said a sincere bow of his head.

"But I also feel," Rhea went on, "that it is important to remember _what _it is we defend. We defend those we lost and those we may yet lose, _not _Logan."

Solaire frowned. "Well, certainly no one thinks _that_, my lady, but we must not forget it is Logan whom _provided _us with this castle and these means to defend ourselves from the cold and from the hollows. We all owe him a great deal of gratitude."

Some of the crowd muttered their agreement, other did not. Rhea was biting at her lip, twiddling the thumbs of her gloves against one another. "Well... I suppose that is true. As long as our loyalties lie to one another and not-"

"-_and _to Logan," Solaire finished, fixing the priestess with a bemused look. _Why is she so insistent on discrediting him? _She opened her mouth in what Solaire assumed was to be further protest, but Rickert took hold of her arm. The two exchanged an unreadable look at the end of which, Rhea pressed her lips tightly together and cast a dissatisfied look Solaire's way. "Anyway," Solaire went on, "We must be prepared to defend ourselves from this threat in the East. So join me, my friends. I know many of you trained briefly with Petrus, but I intend to run things a different way, and I hope you will afford me an open mind as well as an open heart. Let us begin. Praise the Sun."

And so they trained. Solaire had some experience in the field, though he was by no means an expert. He knew swordplay, though, as well as anyone, and soon enough he had even the most feeble-armed men swinging with correct form, and certainly well enough to slice through the soft, decaying, flesh of a hollow soldier should they need to. The crowd segregated rather quickly into groups to spar on their own once they'd had the basics laid out before them. The four leather-clad women stuck together. The older men with their greying hair and crows-feet eyes bunched up, casting surly looks on the younger men who'd grouped together across from them. Rhea and Rickert stuck together, watching the rest of them curiously instead of sparring themselves. They didn't interfere, so Solaire did not protest.

He walked quietly amidst the sparring soldiers, his hands folded behind him, his eyes keeping vigilant for anything he might be able to correct. The old timers had a good grasp of striking and blocking and feigning attack when necessary, though must of them had been farmers in their younger days, and Solaire only had to point out their flaws once or twice. The younger group of men needed the most aid. They were far too arrogant in their attacks on one another, and often times when one of them pursued a barrage of strikes, he wound up leaving himself open for an easy counter-jab to his unguarded stomach. Others struck too cautiously, too _slowly_, and any worthy fighter across from them would spot the attack coming, riposte and parry, and finish the fight before it had even began. Solaire told them as much, but with youth came hubris, and he'd spotted the men making the same mistakes not ten minutes after walking away from them. The women, to his surprise, were among the best fighters atop the wall. Many of them clearly carried a chip on their shoulder, perhaps because they'd received jeers from the men upon joining up, but they turned that anger to a ferocity, and when Solaire corrected them in their attack, they listened, fixed their problem, and adjusted.

A teenage boy with a fall of greasy brown hair that came to his elbows made the mistake of taunting one of the women. She was a short, stout, thing with a square jaw and a crop of black hair atop her wide brow. She crossed to the boy's group and challenged the taunter to a duel. The young man sneered, jested, laughed, and then was on the floor as quickly as Solaire had ever seen a man thrown down before. He had to cross to them and pull the woman free from her mounted position on the kid's waist, pummeling him with her bare hands. The other women cheered and applauded the woman as she returned to their group, and the boy clambered to his feet, his nose bloody and his left eye bruised, but his ego clearly housing the most severe injury.

"A good lesson," Solaire told him. "Never underestimate your opponent." He turned to the woman and bowed respectfully. "Well done, my lady."

"Ooo, the knight called you his _lady_, Winnie," one of her friends taunted, and the three of them laughed as the stout woman's face ran a deep red.

The sun moved from the low plains in the East to the jagged line of mountains in the far West, and by the time it started dipping beneath the horizon, casting its soft orange glow upon the wall and its combatants, Solaire was satisfied in his first day of training. The group huddled before him in the dying light didn't look nearly as crestfallen as they had in _morning's_ light, and someday, the knight thought, they'd be a force worthy of fearing. _Someday_, he reminded himself, _If the day should come when they need _be _a force. _"Praise the Sun," he concluded the session with, bowing, and to his pleasant surprise, a few of them actually returned the words before shuffling into the guard tower to escape the cold winds that had come with nightfall.

He was among the last to depart, and upon entering the tower and facing the long climb of stairs to the Archive's lower levels, he spotted the lady Rhea staring intently at him within. Her face was lined with a stressful look, but when it seemed as if she were going to speak with the knight, Rickert was beside her, taking her waist in his arm and guiding her hurriedly down the stairs. _What queer behavior from those two_, Solaire thought, but by the time he'd returned to his quarters in the barracks, he'd forgotten all about them and had the first good night's rest he'd had in a long time.

It was on the third day of training atop the roof when Kirk came to him. The day had been going well, Solaire impressed with how quickly some of the men and women were taking to their swordplay, and he was readying to teach them how to bash a foe with their shields to buy a moment's respite when he spotted the tall man crossing the roof with a satisfied little smirk upon his ugly face.

"If you're here to taunt me..." Solaire began angrily.

"Nope, not today," Kirk said. "Here to bring you downstairs."

"I'm busy."

"It can wait. This is important."

Solaire frowned. "_More _important than training our defenses?"

"Yes. The _girl _requires your presence. Follow me," he said, turned, and sauntered off.

_Abby? _Solaire wondered, glancing back at the soldiers-in-training. They were sparring, the _click _and _clacks _of dulled blades clashing against wooden shields ringing clear in the frosty, morning, air. "Henrik," he called to his former squire, who was in the midst of teaching one of the girl's how to riposte. The young man turned to him and raised his brow. "You have the command here. I will... return shortly."

He had to hurry down the guard tower stairs to catch up with Kirk, who hadn't bothered waiting for him. The dark knight whistled a cheerful tune as he strolled through the castle, taking the twists and turns of the halls with a lackadaisical pace. Solaire was thankful, at least, the man wasn't talking, he'd rather walk on in silence then have to deal with the knight's wretched tongue. They passed through a long hall, descended a flight of stairs, and wound up exiting into the great hall from some narrow side passage; Solaire never ceasing to be amazed at the many untrodden paths he'd yet to take in the castle.

A smattering of men and women, those were not still atop the Archive's walls at least, were gathered at the long tables eating and chattering quietly amongst each other. At the head of the room, gathered on the stone dais that overlooked the rest of the hall, were Chester and Abby; Chester masked in his longcoat and top hat, Abby garnished in a loose robe of cream-colored silk, silver slippers, and a jeweled crown around her brow. Solaire was a bit taken aback by the sight of the crown, not figuring Abby to be the sort to wear such an extravagant thing. When Kirk and himself approached the dais and set foot on its short fall of stairs to join them, Abby turned to face their way and Solaire gasped. The girl's face had gone even _more _gaunt in the cheeks since the last time he'd seen her, and the darkness that had started ringing the bottoms of her pretty eyes was far more pronounced. _She's aged ten years since coming here_, Solaire thought with a sadness in his heart. _That poor thing._

Kirk moved to the wooden chairs at the rear of the dais and exchanged nods with Chester. Solaire moved beside them and fixed his eyes on Abby, who was staring blankly at Kirk. "My lady," he greeted. Abby's head seemed to turn his way before her eyes did, and when she spotted him, a vague look of confusion came across her, as if she didn't know who he was. Then the faintest of smiles crept up her gaunt face and she planted her hands to the chair arms and rose; Solaire noting the way her arms shook with the effort of lifting herself.

"Solaire," she said, her smile widening, and fell forth into his arms to hug him.

She was so light in his hold, it was as if he were holding _air. _"My lady, are you alright? You don't look well, Abby. Is it... is it the nightmares still?"

"Yes," her voice came half-muffled against his chest. "Nightmares... terrible things." She pulled away, but kept hold of his arms. Her smile, at least, did not waver. "It's my burden to bear, though. Don't worry about me. How are you? How is the training?"

"It goes well my lady," Solaire answered, finding it difficult to look her in the eyes. "It... well, I was in the midst of a session when Kirk informed me you wish to speak with me?"

"Not exactly," Chester answered for her, rising beside the girl and wrapping her shoulder in his arm. He pulled her gently from Solaire and guided her back to the chair beside him. "There will be justice today, knight," the man said, his dark eyes peering out from beneath his mask. "And _you _will serve it."

"Justice?"

"_Logan's _justice," Chester confirmed. He turned to Kirk and nodded. "Go get him."

Kirk laughed and vanished behind the dais. Solaire turned his frown from the knight to Chester. "What is the meaning of this? What justice do you speak of? Where is Logan himself?"

"Logan is busy," Chester said. "My sweet Abby here has been granted the power to speak with his voice. Her word is as good as his now." And with that, he leaned across the chairs and kissed her on the cheek. Abby smiled at him, resting her hand on his own.

_What a despicable man to lay his lips on as sweet a girl as her, _Solaire thought, grimacing.

"Ladies and gentleman, your attention," Chester said, cupping his hands around his mask to carry his voice across the hall. "Your attention. Here, you fools. Look _here_."

Slowly, the men and women feasting at the longtables set aside their meals and turned their bemused faces towards the dais, the chatter dying away and plunging the hall into a profound silence. Chester nodded. "Logan has a message to send today. It may appear cruel, but both he and I assure you it is necessary for the continued safety of all you fine folks within these walls. And your Chosen hero approves. Abby?"

Abby again clambered out of the chair with some effort, facing the crowd and setting her weak little smile upon them. "Yes. I approve."

"She speaks with Logan's voice now, so that's as good as _his _approval," Chester went on. "_Kirk_! Bring out the heretic."

Solaire turned with the rest of the crowd to face the rear entrance of the dais. Kirk and Petrus emerged, a man bound at the hands and blinded by a black bag over his head came struggling between them. _Oh, may the Sun shine its mercy upon us,_ Solaire thought as he studied the prisoner. _That man is too large to be anyone else..._

Kirk and Petrus wrestled the captive to the head of the dais, where wooden stocks awaited. They shoved him to his knees with some effort and quickly worked his neck and wrists into the three grooves of the wood. Kirk slammed the stocks shut around the man, locking him in place, and Petrus ripped the hood free from his head. The large, shaggy-haired, head of 'Black Iron' Tarkus emerged.

"What is the meaning of this!?" Solaire snapped at once, stepping beside his friend. "Remove this man from the stocks _now_. I will vouch for his character. I assure you he's done nothing-"

"He is a traitor and a dragon-worshiper and if you touch those stocks, you'll find yourself _in _them soon enough," Chester said.

Tarkus turned his head the most it could muster locked between the wooden planks and offered Solaire a smile. "My friend," he called up to the knight. "Don't do anything rash. I do not fear these _little _men." Solaire saw one of the big man's eyes were swollen shut, and when he spoke, he could spot missing teeth in his mouth.

"He's been _beaten_," Solaire declared furiously. "You have no right to _beat _a man in captivity."

"We have the right to do what Logan tells us to," Kirk said, the ever-persistent smirk on his face raising higher as he spoke. "And Logan wants all the dragon-worshipers dealt with."

"If he would give up his friends," Petrus added. "His suffering would be over. But the man... the man only _laughs _when we hit him. He won't talk."

"You hit like women," Tarkus said and his hearty laughter filled the great hall.

Petrus' chubby face darkened. "You won't laugh after today."

"You're not going to _kill _this man," Solaire commanded, and suddenly wished he'd had his sword in its hilt.

"No, we're not," Chester confirmed. The slender man turned to the crowd, who'd been watching the drama unfold in a confused silence, and addressed them. "But we _will_," he bellowed. "Hear my words, people, a _cult _has sprung up amongst you! A cult that seeks to see the world to darkness - to _dragons_!"

Chatter immediately rumbled through the great hall as the men and women turned to one another and began whispering their trepidation.

Chester let them talk for a bit before continuing. "They are small and they are treacherous but they _are _among you. Some very likely in this room right now. They will come forth," Chester said, turning and standing aside so the crowd could look upon Tarkus in his stocks. "And every day they don't? Their friend here will lose one of his fingers. That gives them ten days. On the eleventhhe will lose his head. Spread the word. Solaire."

Solaire, who'd been standing with his mouth agape taking all of this information in, pulled out of his daze and faced the masked man. "What? You don't- surely you don't expect _me _to do such a vicious, cruel, thing! Tarkus is my _friend_! He is a good man! He-"

"He _is _your friend," Chester admitted. "Which is why we suspect that _you _are one of these dragon-worshipers."

"_Preposterous!_" Solaire protested.

"Prove it. Cut his finger off."

"The thumb of his right hand," Kirk added. "So that way the big bastard can't swing that big bastard _sword _of his no more."

Solaire looked to the crowd. They were watching, some of them in horror, some with casual interest, some with a _lustful _look in their eye for violence. He shook his head reproachfully before turning to Abby. She'd seated herself again and was facing the far wall, not looking upon the little scene playing out before her. "Abby..." he called, and when she didn't face him, went on sternly, "If you allow this to happen, you are as responsible as the man who mutilates my friend here. Do you understand that?"

"You don't talk to her that way anymore," Chester warned, stepping between them. "She is your princess."

"Princess?" Solaire echoed incredulously.

"If you won't send a message to these cultist," Chester continued, "Abby will be forced to relieve you of your position as captain of the guard, and you will be thrown behind bars until we decide whether your loyalty lies with us or against us."

"You _dare _to question _my_ loyalty you- you _coward_!?" Solaire snapped, his fists balling.

Chester fixed him with an even look. "Abby... he won't serve justice to the dragon-worshiper and he looks to be on the verge of striking one of us. Your permission to detain the knight?"

Solaire's eyes flicked from Chester to Abby. "...Abby..." he croaked from his suddenly dry throat.

The girl turned to him. There were tears falling from her dark-ringed eyes. "Solaire... they would see me dead," she said, her voice trembling. "They want to assassinate me. They want to give Lordran to the _dragons_! You have to see how... how terrible they are."

"This isn't _right_," Solaire pleaded with her. "To mutilate this man makes us just as savage as any dragon-worshiper, I assure you of that!"

"Forget it, Solaire," Tarkus said. "The girl is as mad now as Havel the Rock. She can't be reasoned with. Let 'em take my finger. I'll use the other nine to crush their feeble bones later."

"...I'm not mad..." Abby protested quietly.

Chester moved quickly to her side and seated himself, taking her hand in his own and kissing at it. He leaned forth and whispered in her ear. Abby listened, nodding, and when the masked man pulled away, she looked at Solaire. "Brave Knight of the Sun," she addressed him loud enough for the great hall to hear. "I..." her voice grew shaky, but Chester rubbed his thumb along her hand til she calmed and went on. "I deem you unfit to captain Logan's guard if you will not serve his justice." A tear swelled in her eye and rolled down her cheek. "Will you serve his justice? ..._please_," she added in a quiet, desperate, voice.

Solaire stared at her for a long time then. _She is lost_, he realized as her hands trembled and her eyes flittered nervously around the hall. "No," he answered with a defiant shake of his head. "I will not."

"Seize him," Chester commanded, leaned into Abby, and whispered something.

Abby swiped tears from her cheeks and rose from her chair. "I... I appoint the Knight of Thorns, Kirk, to captain of Logan's guard. He is to... assume all of Knight Solaire's responsibilities immediately."

"About time," Kirk muttered. He bowed, accepting the position, pulled a dagger free from a sheath at his hip, and sauntered before Tarkus whistling his cheerful tune from before. Without hesitation, he leaned down, took the man's right hand in his own, and set the blade where Tarkus' big thumb met his big palm.

"_Wait_!" Abby pleaded, moving forth so quickly, she nearly collapsed from the exertion. When Chester had taken hold of her to steady her again, she pointed a trembling finger at Tarkus. "We can afford one day for this man, can't we? One day? You can... you can do _that_ tomorrow. Give the dragon-worshipers one day to come forth before doing any... any bad things to this man."

A reproachful look passed between Chester, Kirk, and Petrus so quickly, Solaire would have missed it if he had blinked.

"_Please_," Abby begged Chester.

Chester's words came quietly and harshly. "You don't beg _us_, Abby. _You're_ in command here. Don't weaken yourself before the people. Letting this man go unpunished today? That is weakening yourself as well."

"I don't _care_!" Abby shouted.

"She's tired," Petrus said.

"Aye, put the girl to bed," Kirk agreed.

"I'm not _tired_," Abby protested. "And even if I _was _I couldn't sleep anyway!"

"Are yeh cuttin' his finger off er not?" An older man barked from the crowd. "Cez' if yer not, I got a _meal _gettin' cold here."

Chester held Abby's rheumy eyes for a moment before turning to the crowd. "No," he answered, the disappointment evident in his tone. "Your princess and Chosen hero has decided to be merciful today to this man. She has a kind heart. Tomorrow, however, he loses _two _fingers if the dragon-worshipers have not come forth or if someone has not provided us with information leading to their capture. Go back to your damned meals."

When the crowd had resumed their chatter and the dais had calmed, Kirk and Petrus stepped to either side of Solaire. Solaire fixed them both with a shrewd look before facing Abby to question what was to become of him. Chester noticed him, flipped his mask partially up his face, took the girl by the chin, and covered her mouth with his own.

"Let's go, knight," Petrus said, taking Solaire's arm.

Kirk grabbed the other violently. "Fight me, Solaire. I _dare _you. I'm the bloody captain of the guard now. I'll _break _you. Heh."

The two wrestled Solaire down the stone stairs of the dais and hauled him back towards the rear entrance of the great hall. Solaire stole one more glance at Abby, but the girl was still engaged with Chester. _She's not completely lost just yet,_ he thought as they pulled him through the passage. _But it will certainly not be _me_ who saves her now. Not from a dungeon cell, at least. May the Sun watch over the both of us._

Halfway down the passage, when they were far enough from the great hall to go undisturbed, Kirk spun Solaire into the wall and drove his knee into his gut. The wind raced from Solaire as he crumbled to his knees, but his lack of breath became the least of his worries.

The two of them savagely beat him then, driving their armored knees and elbows and fists into his face and body, shoving him to the ground, holding his face to the stone as they kicked at his ribs. Pain wracked every inch of him as they pummeled him into the floor. When at last the darkness came to steal away his consciousness, it was the first time Solaire could remember that he welcomed it.


	26. Chapter 26

The sky was black and the streets of Anor Londo were filled with the dead; the stench of their rotting corpses hanging so thickly in the air, the foul smell became a presence in itself. Men hung limp, impaled on spikes, the skin stripped from their bodies. Women lay piled against buildings, throats cut clean in half, heads drooping forth to their chests. The girl stepped warily forth, wrapping her arms so tightly to her body, her joints began to ache, but refusing to loosen her hold anyway; if she did, she knew the fear would overcome her, knew that she would be lost. Wind ripped forth from the South so violently, she nearly toppled over. It swept past the hanging men, sending their tattered clothing into a wild dance before gathering above the Great Chapel and coalescing into a swirl of snow and ice and death. The girl lost her footing and fell to her knees in the snowfall, clutching desperately to her robes for fear they would strip free as the men's skin had. Hollow soldiers began clawing up from the depths of Izalith, burrowing through the ground around, eyes red, hands twisted into hooves, teeth sharp and dripping with the black blood of the innocent.

From the rooftops, a scream of shrill, hysterical, laughter boomed out across the death-plagued streets, and when the girl lifted her head, she saw clusters of headless gargoyles were swooping free from the chapel's bell tower, descending into the swirl of snow towards her, coming to take her, coming to _claim _her. It was only as they neared that she saw they were, in fact, not headless at all, but had the heads of men and women sewn to their scaled necks instead. The girl screamed a soundless scream as the faces approached and took form. She saw the face of Quelana, Solaire, Chester and Logan, and finally, her _own _face.

Talons tightened around her wrists and arms and pulled. The girl's knees and feet lifted from the snows, and then she was being carried forth to the chapel as the army of hollows beneath her broke into a thundering chant of '_Chosen, Chosen, Chosen_'. She screamed and pleaded and cried and screamed again, but if her mouth made any sound, it was lost in that mad chanting. The Great Chapel's doors burst open, a blinding white light erupting from within, and the dark silhouette of a man with a seven-pointed crown atop his head stepped forth, arms spread wide in welcome. Behind him, two more figures joined at his flanks, one massive and round and wielding a giant hammer, the other tall and thin and carrying a long, pointed, spear that stood taller than himself.

"_Chosen_," the three whispered in unison. "_Come_."

She tried to say no, but her jaw was numb and she couldn't be sure she'd replied at all. She could feel the gargoyle's talons tearing her skin apart at the arms.

"_Come_," the voices whispered, and now the sound came from all around her, from the men in the chapel to the hollows beneath her to the gargoyles overhead, they spoke with the same, hushed, malicious, voice. "_You come. Or we come_."

**-o-o-o-**

Abby rose in bed trembling, a cold sweat thick upon her brow and arms, sticking the sheets to them, and for one mad moment, she thought the sheets themselves had come alive and were trying to wrap her in their hold. She kicked desperately at them, clawing the things loose from her chest, and rolled out of bed. She dashed madly across the room, the stone floor as cold as ice on her bare feet, shoved open the door to the bathing chambers, and fell to her knees just in time to vomit into the bath.

When it was finished, she clawed at the edges of the bath to clamber back to her feet, her knees weak and feeling on the verge of buckling as she did so, and crossed slowly to the mirror, where the room's sole candle flickered orange light beside it. She stood for a moment, pulling long breaths to still her thundering heart, and staring at her own reflection. She barely recognized the woman who stared back her with her thinning cheeks and darkened eyes and short hair, but when she raised a hand to check if the thing was an illusion, the reflection did the same, and Abby knew it was no sorcerer's trick: this was her.

_We're out of time, _she thought, taking the bucket of fresh water beneath the mirror to wash and rinse her mouth of the vile taste the vomit had left within. _I'm out of time and Logan's out of time and there's only one thing left to be done. _She stared at her reflection, refusing to let the tears threatening her eyes to fall. _You will be brave, _she told herself. _You will not cry_.

Chester was leaned against the headboard of the bed when she returned, his arms folded across his bare chest as he watched her. The first night she'd let him share her bed, he'd followed her to the bath chamber and sat beside her as she vomited from her nightmares. The second time it happened, he'd only called in asking if she was alright. By now, he only looked mildly annoyed that she'd woken him, and didn't even bother saying anything upon her return. She didn't say anything either, only moved to the room's closet, opened it, and began rummaging through the clothing there for the warmest attire she could find.

"What are you doing?" Chester asked.

"I have to leave, Chester," Abby told him, her voice hoarse and weak and barely sounding like her own anymore. "I have to go."

"_Go_?" Chester echoed, and her words had finally stirred him enough to sit up in bed. "Abby, what are you talking about?"

"We're out of time," she explained, spotting a pair of heavy boots with wool insulation and grabbing them. "_I'm_ out of time. I'm sorry. Tell Logan I'm sorry, too."

"Stop," he told her, and when she did not, he rose and crossed to her, taking her wrists in his hands. "Abby, I said _stop_."

"Please release me," she said, keeping calm. "You don't understand."

"I understand you're having these nightmares," Chester said. "But that is all they are, my princess. Nightmares. They will pass. Logan said so himself. Come back to bed."

"They're _not _just nightmares!" Abby insisted, tugging at her wrists, wishing she had the strength to free herself. "Chester... if I don't leave soon, maybe- maybe even if I don't leave right _now_, the darkness that lies in Anor Londo is going to _march on this castle_! I won't... I will _not _be responsible for these people's deaths! I _won't_!" She insisted and felt tears threatening her eyes again. She fought them away with a deep breath. "_Please_ let my wrists go."

"You're talking mad, Abby," Chester said, his tone darkening. "If you go to them, you will die. Do you understand that? You will _die_."

"_You don't think I know that_!?" Abby shouted, more loudly than she intended, and pulled at her arms again. "I don't _want_ to die, but..." Her voice grew shaky and the tears could no longer be kept from the corner of her eyes. "I don't want to die," she repeated as they fell to her cheeks. "But I have to."

Chester stared at her, frowning. "We'll discuss this in the morning. You, me... Logan as well."

"We might not _have _til morning!" Abby explained.

"Abby, I love you, I've told you as much many times now, and I'm telling you now, for your own good, I will not let you go wandering out in the freezing cold in the _middle _of the bloody night to go to Anor Londo!"

"If you love me as much as you claim, you'll let me do as I choose," Abby insisted. "Now let me _go_, Chester." She ripped at her wrists, and when he did not loose them, she shouted again, "_Let GO!_"

His hand came across her face so suddenly, she had no time to brace for its impact. The slap stung her cheek, blacked her vision momentarily, and when it returned, she saw she had fallen to the floor. Her hand reached tenderly to her face and her mouth fell agape as she stared up at him. "How... how could you that to me..." she croaked. "How could you _treat _me like this!?"

"Calm yourself," he said, turning from her to rummage through the closet himself. "It was only a slap. And you _needed _it. You're not thinking clearly. Logan will fix that tomorrow." He pulled a pair of belts from the top shelf and faced her.

Abby was still so stunned from the slap, she could only watch as he lowered himself beside her and wrapped her ankles together with one of the belts. "S-stop_,_" she muttered meekly, but when she tried crawling away from him, he tightened his grip on her legs, finished the job, and spun her to pull her arms behind her. "_Please_," she pleaded as he bound her wrists with the other belt. "Chester, please don't do this to me. I won't leave anymore. I won't disobey you. _Please _don't bind me!"

"You'll thank me later," Chester said, and when he'd finished her wrists, stood, scooped her up below the knees and shoulders, and carried her back to the bed. He set her back where she'd been and stood over her, fixing her with a stern look from his dark eyes. "I've been very patient with you, Abby. I've listened to all your nonsense about Anor Londo and treated you as good as you could hope a man would in this new cold world of ours. And Gods _know _I've been patient in _here_," he said, pointing at the bed. "You won't even let me touch you. I'm a man, Abby. I have _needs_. And yet I put up with it. Day after day I put up with it. Do you know how good of a man I am to do all this for you?"

"A very good man," Abby replied immediately, her heart racing fearfully in her chest. "Please untie me."

"I'll free you in the morning," he said, moving to his side of the bed and lowering himself back into it. "Just lie there tonight. If I see you trying to free yourself, I'll lock you in the bath chamber. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispered as a fresh crop of tears dampened the pillow beneath her head. "I understand."

_Lies, _she thought as Chester pulled the covers back over himself and closed his eyes. _His love... his kindness... all lies. I am alone. I am utterly and truly alone. _The thought awoke such a profound sorrow in her heart, she felt as if she would die there and then, lying bound hand and foot in her own bed. When the feeling passed, she sniffled and rubbed her face against the pillow to dry her cheeks. She lied there for a long time, a hopeless despair her only company in the darkness, so thickly laid across her mind she could barely muster a thought in her head. It was the sound of Chester's deep breathing beside her that snapped her out of it. She glared hatefully at him. _This world is covered in barbs, and if you aren't wary, it will tear you apart_, Lautrec's voice spoke clearly in her head, the distant echo of a long-ago told warning. _How right he was, _Abby thought as the tears finally ceased leaking from her eyes. She studied the dark outline of Chester's face, watched it to ensure he was truly sleeping, and slowly began bending back her knees, moving her ankles up towards her hands. When he stirred, she halted, when his breath went on, so did she, and soon enough her fingers fell to the belt's leathery surface around her feet. After a moment of fumbling for the buckles, she found it, worked her fingers beneath it, and popped it free.

Chester turned on his side, but his eyes remained shut, his breathing heavy. Abby rubbed her feet together, freeing them from the belt, and slowly swung them off the bed. When they hit the ground, Abby froze, biting at her lip and watching the ebb and flow of Chester's body as he slept, vigilant for any sudden movement. In took a good while, but eventually she had worked herself free from beneath the covers and off of the bed. She stood over him, hating him, wishing she'd never trusted him in the first place, then stalked across the room to the door, turned to find its handle with her still-bound hands, and pulled it carefully open as to not make any sound.

The hall outside the room was quiet and empty. _Who can I turn to to free me? _She thought, balling her fists at the small of her back, frustrated by how helpless she was. Voices drifted near from the bend at the far end of the hall, and Abby rushed herself into the nook of the doorway to hide. She peeked out and watched two armored men pass by, took a breath, and moved off to follow them. They pressed further into the Archive's labyrinth of hallways, Abby hiding herself in every shadow she could find as she trailed along, and eventually wound down a spiraling staircase.

It was as she was watching them from its top, leaned out over the barrier to spy the top of their heads, when a voice came from behind her shoulder, "You lost, girl?"

She spun, her eyes landing on the thin frame of a young man in studded leather armor and a steel cap. A spear stood against the ground at his side, the man resting against it. _Did he see my hands? _Abby wondered, staring at him. "I-... I could not sleep. I'm not lost. I just... went for a walk. I'm alright."

He eyed her shrewdly, running his tongue along his bottom lip. After an eternity, his shoulders came up in a shrug. "Alright then," he said. "Just, eh, be careful, alright?"

"Yes," Abby answered immediately. "Yes, thank you."

The guard walked off and she watched him go. When he disappeared around the corner, Abby let the breath she'd been desperately holding loose. _They are all against you, _she thought. _You are alone. Truly alone. _The thought, again, threatened to collapse her, so she pushed it from her mind, composed herself, and began descending the staircase. Twice she almost lost her footing, the world spinning madly around her as she teetered without her arms to balance herself, and by the time she found level ground, the cold sweat she'd awoken with had returned to her. She moved to the arched doorway, leaning graciously against the wall and watched the halls for movement as she caught her breath. Distant chatter could be heard coming from the Great Hall. Abby stared towards the sound, checked warily over her shoulder and down the opposite side of the hall, and hurried off towards it.

When she'd pressed to the shadowed wall beside the entrance, she found a smattering of people within, those likely who could not sleep like her, or whose jobs required them to rest by daylight and work by night. No one grouping was any larger than the other, and after a long moment searching desperately for someone she could rely on-briefly, and then be done with-her gaze fell upon the white-robed figure of the priestess Rhea sitting alone at a nearby table, reading from a book. _You've shared words with that women, _she told herself. _She was kind to you and you to her, and there's not another familiar face in the room. _Without further debate, she moved into the Great Hall, moving briskly but not quite running and keeping her hands angled away from any curious eyes that may have fallen upon her.

"Lady Rhea," she whispered when she came before the woman. "I require your assistance. Please do not ask me any questions."

Rhea looked up from her book, the woman's brow raising above her comely face. She eyed Abby up curiously before saying, "Abby? What-"

Abby sat beside her. "Please. No questions."

"A-Alright? I don't understand-" Rhea stopped, looked over Abby's shoulder, and when her eyes returned , there was a shrewd look in them. "Are you _alone_?"

Abby turned on the bench so her back was to the priestess. "Could you release my hands please," she pleaded, and when the woman did not immediately do so, thought, _I've made a mistake_.

"Hold on a second," Rhea told her, then raised her voice to call across the room, "_Rickert_. Could you come here?"

"You know what? Never mind," Abby said and began to raise. The woman took her arm and held her seated. Lautrec's phantom-voice spoke in her head once again: _There will come a day when your trust in others will be your undoing girl. _"Please let me go, lady Rhea."

"Be still, Abby, I mean you no harm," Rhea said, firming her grip.

Rickert, who'd pulled himself from a group of young men he'd been clearly entertaining with a tale, came halfway to the table before his mouth fell agape. "Abby?" He said as he drew near. "Rhea... what the hell-"

"The girl's come to us with a problem," Rhea said. "It seems someone has tried to kidnap her."

Rickert craned his neck to look at Abby's hands. "Is that so?"

"No," Abby said. "No, please. I made a mistake. I'll just go back to my room. You don't have to-"

"We'll protect you, Abby," Rhea said. "Just be quiet a moment and come with us."

Rickert moved beside her and hooked his arm around hers as Rhea stood and took up her other one. When she was between the two, they started walking her back towards the hall. Abby shook her head desperately. "Don't do this to me, _please_," she begged, glancing back at those who remained in the Great Hall, wondering what they'd do if she screamed for their aid. "I have to go! Doesn't anyone understand that!? I have to _leave_! You'll all die if I stay! You'll all _die_!" She shouted, so overcome with her frustraion she twisted violently in their grasp.

"_Shhh_," Rhea hissed. The woman's hand came up and clamped tightly over her mouth. "Just be calm, Abby. We are you _friends_. We don't serve that madman Logan. We serve... another."

_Cultists, _Abby realized, a sudden sense of dread making her skin crawl. _They are the dragon-worshipers. They are the ones who wish to assassinate you. And you handed yourself right over to them. You stupid fool_. She ripped at their arms, but she was weak from lack of both food and sleep and no match to wrestle free from the two of them. She tried shouting for help, but it sounded pitifully helpless and muffled beneath Rhea's hand.

When they'd gotten her out of the Great Hall, Rickert moved to her feet, scooped them up into the pit of his arm, and Rhea wrapped an arm around her chest, keeping one hand securely atop her mouth. They carried her like that down the hall, ignoring her pathetic squirming and fighting and muffled protests, and after a few twists and turns, hauled her inside a room and slammed the door shut behind them.

A small and dark room, only a table, two chairs, and a bed at the far end furnishing it, awaited. Rhea and Rickert hauled her to the bed and dropped her atop it. "_Someone help me! PLEASE!_" Abby wailed, scurrying back to the headboard to distance herself from the two of them. "_The cultists are in here!_"

"_Cultists_?" Rickert echoed, raising a brow. "Not the _worst_ thing I've ever been called, but far from the best."

"Please don't scream anymore, Abby," Rhea pleaded. "Or I'll be forced to gag your mouth."

The priestess stepped closer and Abby threw a desperate kick at the woman. "Stay _away _from me! You're against me! You're _all _against me! I made a mistake. I shouldn't have told him. I should have just left... I made a mistake. I'm _alone _now... I'm alone."

"You poor thing..." Rhea said quietly. "What did they do to your mind?"

Abby's fear turned to anger. She set her eyes upon the woman and glowered. "Don't you pity me. Let me _go_!"

"Can't do that," Rickert said with a shrug. "Sorry. We can maybe talk about getting that belt off your wrists if you calm yourself down, though."

"Remove it. I'm _calm_," Abby snapped.

"As convincing as that was," Rickert went on with a roll of his eyes. "Maybe we just sit here and talk for a bit, hm?

"We mean you no harm, Abby," Rhea said. "We _do _walk the Path of the Dragon, you are correct in that, but we would never _assassinate _someone. That sounds like Logan's words poisoning your mind."

_Liars, _a voice hissed inside her head, and it didn't sound entirely _unlike_ Logan's. Abby forced herself to appear calm. "Alright. I'm sorry for calling you cultist. I'm sorry for struggling against you when you only meant to help me. I won't fight you anymore. I promise." Her eyes flicked to the dagger at Rickert's hip and that voice spoke again, _Kill yourself. Kill yourself and you'll return to the bonfire outside the castle. Dying _was not a pleasant experience, but she'd done it twice now and what harm could a third do? "If you untie my hands, I swear I will behave and we can talk. Please, they hurt very badly."

"The fact that your such a bad liar means you don't do it often," Rickert said. "Which is a good thing. But we can't let you loose in your state of mind. You got this.. crazy 'Havel the Rock' sort of look going on."

Abby's fists were balled so tightly behind her, she had cut into her palms with her own nails. She looked frantically around the room for something to aid her. Rhea took another step closer. _Demons_, Abby thought, eyeng the woman. _These are are a different sort of demons than the ones in my nightmares, but they are demons nonetheless. _When Rhea moved in range, Abby shouted and drove her foot into the woman's stomach. Rhea doubled over gasping for air as the kick connected. Rickert dashed forth to grab her, but she lifted her knee just in time to catch his chin, dazing him. Abby scrambled off the bed, nearly tumbling to the floor without her arms to steady her, but found her footing and made a mad sprint to the door.

She was three feet from it when it opened.

Quelana stood before her.

"No..." Abby whispered, freezing in place and staring at the witch in black robes before her. She blinked and Quelana's body became that of a gargoyle's, but when she blinked again, it had vanished. "You're... an illusion..."

"Abby," Quelana said, putting her hand out and stepping forth.

Abby backed away. "Get _away_! You're not real. The real Quelana _abandoned_ me. Abandoned me like she abandoned her sisters! You're a gargoyle! A _demon_!"

Quelana's face contorted with confusion. "A _demon_? Abby, please, listen to me-"

"We're all going to die in this castle," Abby cut her off. "Unless you stand aside right now. Get out of my way. Get _out_! _GET OUT!_" Rickert and Rhea took hold of her arms. "_NO!_" Abby wailed, twisting in their grasp. "_NO! LET ME GO! YOU LET-_" A thick cloth fell between her lips and pulled tight, silencing her screams.

"Don't hurt her!" Quelana pleaded. "She needs help!"

"I'm not _trying _to!" Rickert snapped. "She's bloody _mad_!"

Abby wailed into the gag and felt warm tears trailing down her cheeks. _Mad, _she thought, and the word sounded so funny in her own head, she nearly laughed. Perhaps she _was _laughing. It was hard to tell: crying and laughing were so similar. They_ are the mad ones, _she thought as Rhea and Rickert wrestled her into a chair. _They are the mad ones and they are the ones who will die when the hollows march and the darkness of Anor Londo spreads across this castle like a plague and they will die and they will die and they will die and I won't help them. I won't help them because I am alone._

_ Utterly and truly alone._


	27. Chapter 27

The Duke's Archives rose from the mountains and trees at its base to loom over the western horizon. Its myriad of towers and curved architecture kept the heaviest snowfall from gathering too thickly, but every windowsill was lightly dusted, every pane of glass layered in a blue frost, and every stone and brick laid into the castle walls looked haggard and ready to crumble should a harsh wind take them too severely.

It was dusk when Lautrec arrived before the monstrous keep, and as he stood in the knee-high snow staring upwards, he could not help a feeling of hope steal across him. _There is life here, _he thought, his eyes flicking across the snow-obscured outline of the castle. _Where everywhere else it fails, here it goes on_. Despite the Archive's outward appearance of decadence, there was lightcoming from nearly every window, casting a soft glow on the snows gathered upon the sills, and perhaps it was only his imagination, but there seemed to be a heatemanating from the keep as well, inviting and alluring and _warm_. When he'd passed the main overlook of Anor Londo after the cursed ride in the winged demon's talons from Sen's Fortress, the city had looked dead and dark and, quite fittingly given the rumors he'd heard, _hollow_. The Archive's were different, though. They were still standing; they were still _alive_.

Lautrec pulled his cloak tighter to his body, wrestled his boots free from the icy snows threatening to frost his feet within, and trudged forth on the path to the castle. The going was slow with the snow here heavier than anywhere else he'd encountered it in Lordran, but before night fell completely and the way shrouded entirely into darkness, he'd made his way before the long, gaping, tunnel that twisted its entrance into the Archive's.

Movement upon the castle's inner wall standing sentinel a few dozen feet back from the tunnel entrance caught his eye. Lautrec squinted, narrowing his vision upwards to the dark silhouettes gathered there. If they hadspotted him, they showed no signs of duress. He watched them stalk the wall from end to end, splitting apart, coming back together, crossing once again. When they moved out of sight the third time, he rushed forth as fast as the snow underfoot would allow, eager to hug the tunnel wall and disappear in its shadowed cover.

_Now I find out if the blacksmith has made a fool of me, _he thought once he'd traversed the short gap and eyed the length of wall that ran away from him in either direction. He shuffled his way beside it, trailing away from the tunnel entrance and running his hand along the icy bricks at his side. Near the rocky rise of cliff that met the elbow of the outer wall, Lautrec spotted Andre's black stone resting against a white tree; the guide the smith had left should he need return to his 'secret entrance'. Lautrec marched past the tree and halted, staring at the wall behind it. It looked as solid as any other section of stone, but when Lautrec pressed his fingers to its surface, they slipped into it and the bricks rippled like the water had when he used to go skipping stones in Carim's ponds with-

-_her_, he thought, and a familiar surge of anger rose to his chest. Ana was close now and the sudden realization had stolen his breath, filled the blood beneath his skin with an itch, and blanketed his mind in a red haze of fury, blinding any rational thought from his head. _Calm yourself, _he commanded, pulling a deep breath of cold air into his lungs to clear his mind. _You're not inside. Not yet._

His elbow vanished the same as his hand, then his arm, his leg, and soon enough, Lautrec had passed through the illusionary entrance entirely and found himself standing in a long, dark, tunnel that showed no hint of an end in sight. He stepped further within and the biting winds at his back fell away. Another few steps and the harsh sounds of the outside world grew quiet and faint and the silence that swelled around him was deafening.

When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Lautrec could make out the vague figure of the walls at his side, and squinting forth, he could see the distant glow of a torch. _Blue, _he thought. _The torch glows blue. _He'd heard legend of sorcerers enchanting torches to keep their fires burning for years, _decades _even, leaving them with unnatural coloring, but he'd never seen one in person, and as he neared to the thing, he heard a faint _hum _emitting from within its icy blue core. He halted at the torch, watching as the flames danced beneath his chin, yet when he looked to the wall at his back, he saw no shadow was cast. 'Demon's Fire' is what the priests and priestesses in Carim used to call it, and a younger Lautrec had scoffed at them and jested with his friends over their concerns. Standing before it now, though, had sent a chill along his spine, and he understood the nickname entirely. He pulled the thing from its sconce, held it before his chest, and let its queer light guide him deeper inside the tunnel.

Further along, he came upon the rotting corpse of a man, or perhaps a woman; it was impossible to tell. The skin was rotted clean from the bones, save a few patches around the head, where long wisps of white hair trickled around the thing. He lowered the torch, casting its glow upon the corpse's hands, and saw it still clutched to a book-the pages of which had decomposed into yellow, crumbling, flakes-and a talisman. _Whomever is was, they were praying, _he realized, lowering to a knee to pry the divine tool free from the bony hand wrapped around it. _Perhaps they were lost in these tunnels with no light to guide them and turned to the last vestige of hope that remained to them: their Gods. _The talisman came loose with a sudden jerk and a fresh rain of dust fell from the corpse's tattered clothing. He pocketed the thing, not entirely sure why, and went on.

As the tunnels wound their way deeper and deeper, the stone underfoot rising in places, falling in others, turning to gravel in yet others still, his thoughts began to drift to whom exactly had _dug _such a queer tunnel, and why one was needed beneath the castle in the first place. He traveled over streams of water passing between barred archways, ducked to crawl forth on his hands beneath low-hanging falls of rock that clustered a section of tunnel for far longer than he'd hoped, and came upon a set of iron rungs nestled into the wall, leading him first up to a short and narrow bridge, then down to the tunnels, then down further stillinto a passage that felt far colder and somehow _darker _than any other he'd traversed.

He was halfway to a 'T' intersection when the blue light of his torch fell upon a corpse leaned against the wall directly in the center of the crossing. Lautrec neared it, and as its form took shape, his mouth fell agape and his skin crawled: it was the same corpse he'd passed earlier. "_Impossible_!" He hissed, meaning to think the word, but so overcome with doubt, the thought vocalized. He rushed forth and dropped to his knee to examine the thing. The skin was missing, the hair fell in white wisps around its skull, and a tarnished, yellowed, book hung loose in its skeletal grip. The other hand was empty, but the fingers were bent in such a way that hinted it had died grasping dearly to something.

Whispers rushed through the tunnels at his back.

Lautrec stood, spun, and thrust the torch forward into the darkness; his breath frozen in his chest, his heart pounding in unnatural rhythm, his head spinning.

Only darkness greeted him; darkness and silence. When he turned back to the corpse, it was gone. Despite the madness of it all, Lautrec laughed. _Perhaps this is how Logan turned Havel's mind to ash, _he thought, waving the torch towards the other two passages at his sides. _Sent him down here to wander around in the dark for an eternity or two. _If he stood there letting his thoughts linger, he'd likely turn just as mad, and so Lautrec pushed on.

The tunnels twisted and twisted, and he felt his mind twisting with them. The torch's blue flame began to turn his eyes sore, and he found himself wishing he'd never taken the thing. Still, he made his feet move. Twice more he saw the rotting corpse awaiting him in his path, the head tilted on its side, the mouth a gaping, black, hole frozen in a soundless scream, but both times he refused to look at the thing, marching past, one hand resting on the hilt of his shotel. He came upon the ladder rungs leading up to the bridge again, though he'd never turned back in his travels, and quickly made the ascent and descent once more. _It can only turn you mad if you let it, _he told himself as he lowered to the other side. _And you won't let it. You will not_.

"_Lautrec_," Anastacia whispered.

Lautrec froze, his hand still clutching the last rung of the ladder, the knuckles ran white as bone. He stilled his breath, set aside his fear, and turned to face the tunnel.

Ana stood there in her dingy robes. Her skin was a ghostly pale, and there was blood leaking from her eyes. She opened her mouth and a tongue, a foot long and as black as his parent's bodies had been when he'd found their cooked corpses in their bed so many years ago, rolled loose from within, licking at her chin and neck.

A frantic madness threatened to shatter his mind, and so Lautrec turned his fear to anger. He ripped one of his shotels free, bellowed a warcry, and charged her. Anastacia did not move as he approached, only stood there, her black tongue lashing about on her face, staring at him from blood-soaked eyes that housed no pupils. He lowered his shoulder and drove her backwards when he neared. She stumbled, tripped, and landed seated against the tunnel wall there. Lautrec wasted no time: he threw the torch to the ground, wrapped both hands around his shotel, and began hacking away at her body and her arms and her face and her _tongue _- that black, serpent's, thing that lashed like a demon's and had stolen everything from him. At a point, he began shouting, but _when _he could not say, and there was no stopping the shout even after he'd heard it. It, somehow, felt just as important to wield as his blade.

When he finally slowed to an exhausted halt, his arms sore from the effort, his breath coming in labored gasps, his brow thick with a cold sweat, he stared down upon Anastacia and found she was not Anastacia at all, just the same, rotted, corpse with the book in its hand from the tunnel entrance. Its mouth no longer looked gaping, it looked like it was smiling.

_You won't do it, _he told someone, perhaps the corpse, perhaps Anastacia, perhaps Logan, perhaps himself. _You won't beat me. You won't. You won't._

"I won't what?"

Lautrec turned from the torch and spotted a man standing in the tunnels, a crossbow held at his hip and aimed Lautrec's way. Lautrec frowned and snapped his head back to the torch. The queer, blue, thing was still resting in its sconce. He turned to peer back over his shoulder, and could hear the winds raking across the walls outside, could feel the slight chill coming from the tunnel's hidden entrance. _I never moved past this spot? How can that be?_

"Let's go, Lautrec. He's waiting for you," the voice commanded.

He faced the man again, and in the faint torch glow, he could see a top hat resting on the man's head. "You're the one with the mask," he said. "From the bridge... Chester." _But are _you _the illusion, or am I? _

"That's right," Chester answered. "And _you _are making quite a bit of noise down here. You aren't _seeing things _are you, knight?"

Lautrec stared at him unblinking.

"Logan says he's been waiting a long time for you," Chester went on. "Follow me. The path isn't long."

"Anastacia..." Lautrec whispered, snapping his head around to find where she'd gone or where the corpse had gone or where his sanity had, perhaps, gone.

"Oh, your prize is here," Chester said. "Logan rewards his servants. Rewards us well. Come."

Lautrec didn't know what those words meant, and he scarcely even believed the man standing before him in the darkness of the tunnel was _real_, but he weighed his options, took one last glance at the queer, icy, light of the enchanted torch, and moved forth to follow him all the same.

They did not speak as they walked. Lautrec kept behind the man, his hands resting atop the hilts of his blades, his eyes keeping vigil for any further madness, so that he may snuff it before it took his mind entirely. They passed the place where he'd first spotted the corpse (_Ana_?) and found the area empty. They climbed the ladder, crossed the bridge, climbed back down, and the tunnel ended; as short and pitiful as that, it ended. A rectangular peg of soft light gave way to what looked like a library.

"What trick took my mind in that tunnel?" Lautrec asked, the dreamy fog that had veiled his thoughts lifting as he stepped beneath the passage.

Chester turned to face him, and in the library's harsh lighting, he could see the man's dark eyes gleaming delightedly beneath his jester's mask. "You assume it was a trick? _I _don't know what you saw down there... ghosts? Monsters? Demons? Hm, perhaps you truly are losing your mind, Lautrec." He snickered. "It would be a shame for you to come all this way to-"

Lautrec shoved the man against the bookshelf at his back, pressed his forearm into his throat, and hooked his fingers beneath the chin of the mask. He ripped it free, exposing a stunned expression upon Chester's face. Lautrec held him in place, dropped the mask to his feet, and cracked it clean in half beneath his boot. Chester opened his mouth, but Lautrec pressed deeper into his throat and the only sound that escaped his lips was a choked gurgle. "You think I'm mad and you have the courage to _taunt _me? You must be a very foolish man. The _last _foolish man I trusted stuck a blade in my side and threw me over a bridge. I won't make the same mistake twice." He reached his free hand to his shotel and pulled it loose from its sheath. Chester's eyes widened in terror as the blade pressed to his cheek.

Lautrec eased up enough so he could muster a few words. "_Piss... on that... knight... you kill me... and Logan... will- urk!_"

"You forget that I haven't been living in this castle as the rest of you have," Lautrec explained. "I don't _fear_ Logan."

"_You'll never... see... Ana..._"

Lautrec let him go. Chester crumpled to the floor, clutching at his throat and gasping for breath. When it had returned to him, he cradled the broken halves of his mask. "Get up," Lautrec commanded, "And take me to him." When the man did not immediately do as told, Lautrec grabbed him by the arm, yanked him to his feet, and shoved him to the room's sole doorway. "Move."

Chester glanced over his shoulder very briefly, and in the man's eyes Laurtec saw a burning contempt. His fist wrapped around the hilt of his blade and an itch took his arm, begging him to hack the man into bits. _It's being this close to Ana, _he realized, stilling his rage. _Her presence has awoke something in me... something that will need to be controlled. For now. _Chester started moving. Lautrec followed.

He'd been in the Duke's Archives before, in some other life, and hadn't found them impressive then and didn't find them impressive now. They walked on passing lots of books, plenty of tables and chairs, and little else. A few people that had gathered around the library's upper balcony cast curious looks their way, but they moved otherwise uninterrupted. Chester moved beneath an arched passage that spilled into a Great Hall, and when Lautrec followed him in, he saw a cluster of men in heavy armor gathered at a longtable look their way. The tall, thorn-armored, man he'd bested on the Burg bridge days earlier was chief among them, sitting there staring at Lautrec, his mouth agape, his face blank and just as ugly as Lautrec remembered it.

"What the-" Kirk began in, but Chester raised a hand and shook his head.

"Logan doesn't want him disturbed."

Kirk's eyes narrowed on Lautrec, his glare housing as much hatred as the crossbowmen's had. _At least I won't lack for enemies in these walls, _he thought, returning the knight's glare with an even-tempered look.

"Chester... where's your _mask_?" Kirk asked when his eyes returned to his friends, and the whole longtable's interest was suddenly piqued. They stood and craned their necks to get a look at the man.

Chester pulled his coat collar up as high as it would go to shield himself, but offered no response.

They walked out of the great hall, climbed a spiraling tower of stairs, and hooked around the upper library to set foot into the cold, outer, balcony that twisted its path alongside the inner wall before ending in a tall, wide-set, door. Chester halted, turned, and nodded to the entrance. "Go on."

Lautrec's eyes flicked from the door to the man. "After you."

"This is as far as I go," Chester told him. The lanky man sauntered forward, ignoring Lautrec's raised shotel, and shouldered his way past. When he was nearly lost around a bend, he turned back in the falling snows and called out, "Bring her back to us, knight. You bring her _back_."

He vanished around the edge of wall and Lautrec thought on his words only briefly before stepping to the door and shoving it open. A steep drop awaited him, a ladder sticking up over the edge of its fall. Lautrec lowered himself to it and climbed. _I've been here before, _he thought as he listened to the thudding coming from somewhere deeper in the tower; a flat, pounding, noise that produced no echo. His feet hit solid ground and he released the ladder, turned, and faced a winding set of stairs that wrapped the tower's wall in a spiraling descent. _I knew those stairs would be there. _He walked them, refusing his eyes to fall upon the blue torches that hung ensconced along the path lest they warp his mind and bring him back to those maddening tunnels beneath the castle. _The climb will be long. _It was; the stairs twisting deeper and deeper, emptied prison cells on his right, the emptiness of the tower's center on his left. _There will be a loose stone beneath my left foot. _A moment later, the ground shifted beneath him as a loose stone came free underfoot. _And here, _he thought, coming around a bend. _The stairs end and the madness begins._

The tower's bottom level flattened out in a massive circle. There were pillars marching around the perimeter in guard, _more _bookshelves at the walls behind them, and in the middle of it all, an enormous machine stood erect twenty feet high, an amalgamation of cogs and bars and steel and wood and-

-_blood_, he thought. _There will be blood spilled here._

Nine crystal golems, each coated in a thick layer of icy blue armor, were staring at him. They were hulking, eyeless, monstrosities, and yet Lautrec felt no fear. In fact, he found his feet carrying him right past them, their giant heads turning languidly to watch him pass. A wooden desk, half-buried in books and tomes, was nestled into a nook at the end of the room, candle light flickering madly around it in disorganized patterns. Lautrec sidled by a stack of books and sat himself in a chair immediately.

"No," he said.

Logan was seated across from him. The man raised his head, the insanely wide brim of his hat wobbling as he did, and when the candlelight reached his shadowed face, a smile sat there; innocuous and inviting. "_No_?" He echoed.

"You were going to ask if I wanted a drink, weren't you?"

Logan's head cocked ever-so-slightly on its side. "Perhaps I was." His smile widened. "But the moment is gone, _lost_, and a fresh one begins, so let us not dwell on the past, but _revel _in the present. Hello, Lautrec," His arm reached across the table, and in the light his skin looks sallow and sagging from his bones. His nails were yellowed and long.

Lautrec did not take his hand. "I only shake hands with men I respect."

Logan's smile did not waver. He simply nodded, pulled his hand back, and leaned into his chair. "Fair enough, good knight. Fair enough. You know, I've been waiting a very long time for you."

"Why?"

"To reward you."

"For what?"

Soft laughter, almost childlike, rumbled from the sorcerer's lips. "For your _hard _work, of course."

Lautre glared across the table. _Don't let him talk, _Domhnall had warned before he'd left the chapel. _Just kill the madman and be done with it. _"What hard work?" He asked, ignoring the merchant's voice.

"Oh, Lautrec," Logan said. "You didn't think you'd gotten here all by yourself, did you? You are a _knight, _after all. You know... killing and combat and weaponry... but a knight's mind is not fit to unravel the profound mysteries of this world. _That _is left to us old 'mad' sorcerers."

"That's not an answer to my question."

"It will be," Logan quickly retorted. "But first, let me ask _you _a question. Why are you here, Lautrec?"

"To kill you," he told the sorcerer, holding the man's eyes.

Logan's face wrinkled, froze, and then erupted into a hearty, joyous, laughter. "Oh, you _are _a blunt one, my friend. Ha! That's good. _Good_. I'm surrounded by liars and deceptive little rats scurrying about in my walls. It is so... _refreshing _to have a man look you in the eye and tell you his intentions. The rest of them?" He pursed his lips, shook his head. "They know nothing of the romanticism of life and death. They would steal your life from you in the night with a blade in your throat like cowards. But you? You are different, Lautrec. It is one of the reasons, amongst many, I chose you." Logan poured himself a chalice of red wine and sipped at it. "It was I who awoke your mind to the prison it is held in, friend. It is _I _who researched and researched this world over and over, desperately looking for some answer I didn't even know the _question _to. And when I found it, I set in motion a plan that has led us both to this very moment seated across from one another. Isn't that exciting? To think of all the _work _that is behind this moment? And look at us! Either one of us could steer the future of Lordran in a whichever direction we see fit."

The man paused, apparently awaiting a response. Lautrec did not give him one.

"Do you remember lying awake in your little cell in the church attic, Lautrec?" Logan asked. "Do you remember? Trapped for a crime you had not yet committed. A shame. You spent an awfully long time in there. A lesser man might have been driven mad. You're no lesser man, though. You're a man who gets things done. A man who would cut down five _other _men in his path, just to get _closer _to what he desires. That's the sort of thing I sought. That's the sort of thing I _found_. Found in _you_! Hmmm. If you close your eyes, can you still hear my words, knight? Whispering in the darkness, telling you of a world that has imprisoned you in its endless cycle? A world that has, unjustly, tormented your very soul for the _Gods _satisfaction? Can you still hear my warning, Lautrec? _Go_, I whispered. _Go and get the witch and take the crow to the Asylum. Go and bring me the next Chosen Undead. _Do you remember?"

"_You _filled my head with all this madness?" Lautrec asked.

"Only to set you _free_, my friend. To set us both free. See, we were both men born into slavery. Me in my cage at Sen's Fortress, you in yours at the church. The creators locked us away, the two of us, and do you know why? So that we would _see_. See a physical representation of a world that has locked around us and shackled us to its floor. But we are hard-working men, aren't we? We are determined men. And we defied our creators and set ourselves free and now we stand on the cusp of _changing the world of Lordran - FOREVER_!"

The man's shout had pulled Lautrec from his daze. He narrowed his eyes upon Logan's. "So you freed yourself... came to my cell in the Parish... spoke to me as I slept... told me of all this endless cycle madness and... what? Sent me to bring you the Chosen? _Why_? What purpose could all of this possibly serve you?"

"Time," Logan answered. "It has bought me the time I need. If the Chosen is here, safe and sound with _me_, the bonfire at the Kiln of the First Flame go unlit and the world doesn't revert back." He paused, leaned forward onto the desk, and held Lautrec's eyes in his own. "And now there are those who would take the girl from me-from _us_-and toss away all of our hard work. There are rats in the walls, my friend, _big _rats that want to see us imprisoned forever. Who want to see the world recycled to what it once was. To steal the girl away from us."

"...Abby."

Logan nodded. "You and I have worked tirelessly to break this cycle and end this madness, Lautrec. We have gone to _great_ lengths to free the people of Lordran from the bondage our creators have wrapped them in, but they are _simple _creatures, my friend, and they don't understand like we do. They would take her away from this castle." He grimaced. "And send us _both _back to our cells."

"Lordran is dying," Lautrec told him. "None of this matters."

"Lordran is _changing_," Logan corrected. "Absolutes are for the weak-minded. Things don't truly begin and end, they simply change from one thing to another. If I let this wine sit uncorked it will turn to mold. Give it long enough and the mold will break apart and enter the air. Over time, people will breath it, their lungs will _change _it, and the wine will cease to be wine, but it will not have simply _ended. _Lordran is in the process of such a change. We need only to stay courageous as it happens around us."

"We'll all die," Lautrec said. "It grows too cold to live."

"Many will die," Logan agreed. "Not all. Not you. Not me. Not those who put their _trust _in me. I am going to break the cycle, Lautrec. That machine you passed on your way here? The creators left it for us. I believe it is a fail-safe in case one of us succeeded our limitations. The machine will offer salvation when it is complete. If you believe in me... you _will _live. You will live to see the great change that comes across Lordran."

"And what exactly is it you think Lordran is going to change into?"

Logan shrugged. "That's the exciting element of it all, I suppose. I don't know. Perhaps we will leave this world and coalesce with the creator's _next _world. Perhaps we will go to the creators themselves and live an eternity in their kingdoms."

"_Perhaps_ we will all wither and die," Lautrec said.

Logan stared at him. "...No. The creators are not malevolent beings. The _Gods _that play with us, torment us, for their own, cruel, enjoyment? They are a different sort of creature. Do not mistake them with the wonderful beings that crafted all you see around you."

Lautrec sat for a moment, quietly mulling over the sorcerer's mad ramblings. "Where is Abby?"

Logan sighed. "You know, when the girl first came to me, I didn't really know what to expect. And then the prettiest, sweetest, little thing came shyly walking up to me and I knew I wanted her to live. Abby..." His face darkened. "It is a true shame what those creatures did to her head."

Lautrec sat up. "What does that mean?"

"I'm afraid the girl's mind is shattered," Logan said, smiling wanly. "She hasn't been able to sleep because of nightmares. She claims the hollows and demons of the city torment her in her sleep. I... I believe her, Lautrec. I truly do. But she is past the point of help. And now there are dragon-worshipers in our numbers who would take her from the castle. Do you know what would happen if she left this castle? The hollows would hunt her, steal her from those _cultists_, and drag her off the Kiln of the First Flame in _chains _to kill Gwyn. All so the wretched things can go on existing. The whole cycle started over again," he said quietly with a reproachful shake of his head, "because of one girl."

"What are you saying, sorcerer. Speak it plain."

Logan sighed. "I'm saying her life has become one of constant pain and sorrow. And she only poses a threat _alive_." He looked across the table at Lautrec. "You and I are men who get things done. And we know what has to be done, don't we? As terrible as it is... it _must _be done."

Lautrec's eyes fell to his calloused, dirty, hands. He thought of the day the girl had taken a hold of them and fixed him with her little 'calming' trick. It had been... the best he'd felt since the day he came across his parents' bodies. He almost felt at peace in that moment.

"I know she likes you," Logan said. "She spoke of you highly. I imagine you might have acquired a fondness for _her _as well. It is hard not to. If her mind had remained in tact I would have seen her as my Queen in the next world."

_Only a _King_ would need a Queen, _Lautrec thought, masking his thoughts from the sorcerer by lowering his head. _Is that what you think of yourself, Logan? The 'King' of whatever comes next for Lordran should the Kiln go unlit?_

"But as I said," Logan went on," her mind is broken. Death would be... a relief to her now."

"Then why haven't you killed her..." Lautrec asked.

"Because _they _have her," Logan growled. "Those... _dragon_-worshipers. They stole her from me." He rose from his chair, hobbling around the desk with a long, wooden, cane to aide him. "It is as I said, Lautrec. You are a man who can get things done. You always have been. You broke free from your cell in the church, took the witch of Izalith to aid you, retrieved the Chosen Undead from the asylum, and-one way or another-got you both _here_. Now I ask only that you do one _more _thing for me before we save Lordran from its infernal cycling. _Get _her. Get Abby and bring her back. Bring her here to me and... let me give the girl the peace of death."

Lautrec did not respond. He stared into the dancing flame of the candle nearest to him atop Logan's desk, thankful its light was orange and not blue.

"And when _that _unfortunate piece of business is complete," Logan went on. "I have your reward here. Hmm. When all the other firekeepers parished, it was _I _who made sure Anastacia of Astora stayed nice and safe. And now I will give you the vengeance that you so desperately desire, Lautrec. You can... do whatever it is you want with her. I won't ask questions. Just you and her in a little room with nowhere to run. I can only imagine how... _satisfying _it will be for you."

Anger coursed through his blood turning his skin to fire. "_Where is she?_" He demanded, rising to meet Logan's eyeline beside him.

"Close," Logan said. "Bring me Abby and she is yours."

His hand fell to his shotel.

Logan's eyes flicked to it. "There's that fighting spirit I'm looking for. Cut our enemies down, knight. Cut them down like the killer you are and bring her to me."

Lautrec envisioned what Logan's face might look like if a river of blood was spilling from his neck.

His fingers danced around the hilt of his blade.

Logan smiled.

"I'll be back," Lautrec told him, turning and marching away, eager to be rid of the man.

"Do you need to know where to start looking?" Logan asked over his shoulder.

"No," Lautrec said. _Find Laurentius, _Nico, the mad dragon-worshiper, had told him atop Sen's Fortress. _He will gather the others._

_ That is just what I will do, _Lautrec thought. _Find the pyromancer... and hurt him. _He shouldered past the golems, who were all staring down at him as he walked, and his eyes fell upon the massive machine in the tower's center. _There will be blood spilled here, _he thought again, but Abby's face, smiling and innocent, flashed in his mind, and he suddenly felt a sickness stir in the pit of his stomach. He quickly put the thought aside.

He would deal with it when the time came.


	28. Chapter 28

Something was happening in the city of Anor Londo. There had been little to no activity when Quelana had passed the city's upper wall on her and Abby's travel from the Darkroot Gardens to the Duke's Archives, and little more had been told to her by those who walked the Path of the Dragon afterwards. From what she understood, the hollows were _there_, certainly, but the things were mostly quiet and remained hidden in the various buildings and chapels that lined the streets. But looking upon the city from atop the Archive's watchtower, Quelana could clearly see, partially obscured by the relentless snows, something was stirring the hollows up. The rotting things were gathering in the streets, along the bridge that ran to the upper walls, before the chapel, atop the roofs. Their numbers weren't great, but there were far more than she'd previously thought they had. _You're all going to die in this castle, _Abby had warned them before she'd been silenced, and watching the hollows now, a terrible sense of dread came across Quelana.

The sound of footsteps drifted from within the watchtower, and Quelana wrapped her robes closer to her body and backstepped deeper within the shadowed nook between the the tower and the parapets. She stilled her breath and listened, and soon enough the sound of a throat clearing and two coughs brought her relief. She rose and stepped cautiously around the tower's bend.

Rickert stood beneath the arched doorway, the young man's arms folded across his chest, an agitated look upon his face. Her approach stirred him only briefly, then he was heading her way, speaking in a hush voice. "No go."

Quelana's shoulders slumped forth. "Why? What's happened?"

"Our new '_wonderful_' captain of the guard has doubled patrol on the prison cells," Rickert explained, breathing into his hands to warm them. "There's no sneaking in, and Rhea and I alone couldn't take Kirk and his men. We'll have to come up with something else to spring Tarkus."

"We don't have the _time_," Quelana said, sweeping her arm to the city below. "Abby said-"

"I don't _care _what the mad girl says," Rickert cut her off. "The hollows aren't marching on the Archives."

Quelana frowned. "You promised me- you _all _promised me we would leave here once we had Abby."

"Once we had Abby _and _the children," Rickert corrected. "And now, Tarkus. What? You think we'd leave him here with that sick, thorny, bastard of a knight?" He scoffed, stepped to the parapets, and gazed down upon Anor Londo, rubbing his hands together. "Look at the sorry bunch of them. You think they can storm a castle with a few dozen? The archers alone will halve that number before they ever set one, rotting, foot inside the walls."

"It's not just about the hollows," Quelana pressed on. "There is... something bad about to happen here. Don't you _feel _it? First, the Knight Solaire is stripped of command and thrown in a cell, then this Logan man orders all the entrances and exits of the castle sealed and guarded? You-"

"That's because he doesn't want the girl getting away."

"And what _of _'the girl'!?" Quelana snapped. "Abby's health worsens by the day. She shivers at night. She doesn't _sleep_. She has to be taken away from this place!"

"Hey, witch, it ain't the locations that needs fixin' - it's the girl's _mind_ that needs a bolt tightened up or two," said Rickert. "Doesn't matter if she's here or in the Burg or, well, wherever it is you want to drag her off too."

"What about your 'dragon God'," Quelana questioned. "Can't he 'fix' her mind?"

Rickert looked at her, a sly grin coming across his face. "You don't believe that."

"I _know _I don't believe it, but if it will get Abby out of here-"

"It won't," Rickert said with a sigh. "Look, just sit tight for a little longer, alright? We'd all be together in a nice warm room having this discussion if Laurentius wasn't so bloody paranoid about us being watched. Just... just keep doing what you're doing. Stay with the girl, comfort her as much as you can, and we'll be gone soon enough. Those craven soldiers of Kirk's _aren't _taking off Black Iron Tarkus' fingers, I can tell you that much."

Quelana turned from the man, grabbed a handful of her robes, and balled it into a knot within her fist. _There is no ground to be had here, _she thought, her eyes sweeping the city. _If I'm to see Abby away from the castle... I will be alone in my endeavor. _She was wondering whether she could actually do it, with Abby likely fighting her every step of the way now that her mind had failed her, when Rickert tapped her on the shoulder.

"Tell Laurentius Rhea and I will meet him in the Great Hall in two hours to discuss our next move," he told her. "Alright?"

Quelana pressed her lips tightly together and held the man's eyes for a moment before nodding.

He returned the gesture. "Good. And... um, witch. Just... just stay hopeful, alright? We _got _the girl. I mean, that was going to be the hardest part of this whole operation. The rest... well, the rest will fall into place. Sooner or later."

With that, he smiled, bowed, and spun on his heel to disappear back inside the tower. Quelana waited, finding the act of waiting more and more uncomfortable as the days drew on within the castle, and when enough time had passed for Rickert to clear out, stalked around the corner herself and headed inside.

The brief trip back to Laurentius' room was slowed only when Quelana had to hide herself from a passing guard, whose trips seemed to grow more and more frequent as of late, and then she was slipping back between the narrow opening of the door, quickly closing and locking it behind her.

Abby was where Quelana had left her, though there was little the girl could do about that; Rickert and Rhea had bound her to a wooden chair, her wrists and ankles tightened to the arms and legs of the thing, and her torso pinned in place. She had to be kept gagged with a thick cloth fastened between her lips, lest the girl's screams bring the whole castle down upon them. Quelana had tried removing the thing three times since Abby had been taken in by Rickert and Rhea, but each attempt was met with shouts and curses and words that she never would have guessed could come from the girl's mouth, which had been so sweet and kind before coming to this terrible place.

As Quelana crossed the room, Abby fixed her with a hateful glare, as was becoming custom for the girl. There was something _else _in those blue eyes that had once been bright and pretty, too, but Quelana could not place it. She refused to think of it as a madness, as Laurentius had whispered to her when he looked upon her the first time, but there was no denying the look was... disconcerting.

"Alright, Abby," Quelana greeted, seating herself at the bed beside the girl. She kept her voice as calm and comforting as she could, even when faced with Abby's overwhelming hatred. "I'd like you to drink some water. Can you do that for me?"

Her glare was her only response.

Quelana sighed, and ran the back of her hand along the girl's forehead, where loose strands of chestnut-brown hair were coming back and falling to her brow. Her skin, at least, was without fever. Quelana had seen plenty of her pupils come down with sicknesses in Blighttown that had left their skin as hot as flame.

She rose, crossed to the window where a bucket of snow had melted into cool water, and returned to fill a mug. "Please don't shout when I remove this," Quelana pleaded, raising her free hand to the gag. "Abby, you know it won't do you any good. Just quietly have a drink of this and then perhaps we can speak. Alright?"

Again, the girl only glared. The look seemed so foreign upon her face, it was almost as if it were someone else seated beside Quelana. When the gag came loose, falling loosely around her slender neck and collarbone, Quelana braced for the worst. Abby did not scream, however. Instead, she eyed the mug of water longingly until Quelana brought it to her lips. She allowed it to be tipped back into her mouth and began drinking in short gulps. When the water had been all but emptied, she leaned forth, spilling the last of it onto her chin and upper chest. Quelana took the mug away and quickly dried the girl with the hem of her robes. When she finished, Abby was staring at her quietly. The anger had dissipated from her eyes, but there was a queer _deadness _to them as she spoke in a coarse, monotonous, voice, "Thank you, Quelana. I feel much better now. In fact, I think I understand what I did to be put in this chair. I'm sorry. Can you let me go now? I won't do it again."

Quelana frowned. Somehow, the flat sound of Abby's voice along with her hollow stare had put more of a dread in her then gazing upon Anor Londo had. "I... don't think that's wise, Abby."

The girl's lip curled ever so slightly. "Oh? Why not, Quelana?"

"I don't think you're well yet," Quelana explained, laying her hand on Abby's and gently stroking it.

"I am. I promise. Please untie me."

Again, the utter strangeness of her tone was unsettling. It was as if she were reading from a book instead of speaking her own words. Quelana shook her head. "No, Abby."

Abby stared at her then for a long time. Her mouth curled into what might have been a snarl if she's had the strength to fully form one. "You're a liar and an imposter," she said, her eyes widening. "You killed the real Quelana and now you're trying to kill me too. _Assassins_! That's what you are. All of you. You _cultists_! You _cravens_! You're going to die." She laughed a bizarre, mirthless, laugh. "You're going to die for what you're doing to me."

"Abby," Quelana began, desperate to make the girl understand she wasn't her enemy.

"Don't _speak_ to me like you know me," Abby cut her off. "You-... perhaps you might be the real Quelana. And perhaps, oh, yes. Perhaps you were with them the whole time. You sabotaged us, didn't you? You led us right to these cultists of yours. Yes. You treacherous thing, you. You're no human. You're a coward and a sneak and a _witch_!"

Quelana took a breath, forcing herself calm. "I won't let your anger turn me away. I won't abandon you."

"Why not? Because you pretend I'm one of your _witch _sisters and you're trying to make right your betrayal of them?" Abby snapped, and when Quelana fixed her with a hurt look, the girl grinned. "That's it, isn't it? This whole time. You only looked after me to _use _me! Just like you'd have these cultists use me! Well, I won't be used! I'm not one of your sisters, you witch, I'm a human! Do you _hear me!? I'm NOT your SISTER!_" Quelana moved behind her to fasten the gag back in her mouth and Abby began ripping at her bound limbs. "_You can't keep me here forever! I'll-MMPH!_"

"I'm sorry," Quelana said as Abby thrashed about the chair the most she could in her weakened state. She seated herself beside the girl once again and took hold of her hand to comfort her. Abby was huffing and puffing beneath the gag from her exertion, and the fiery glare had returned to her eyes, but Quelana only stroked her hand and looked upon her with sympathy.

The two of them remained seated like that for a long time: Abby slowly calming herself upon clearly realizing the helplessness of her situation; Quelana watching her, deep in thought, wondering if she _did _manage to steal the girl away from this terrible place, if her mind could ever be mended. The answer she arrived at made her feel nauseous, and so she put the thought aside.

A profound quietness had stolen across the room when the door burst inward so violently, the wooden thing splintered a bit at the hinges. Quelana lept instinctively to her feet and flame graced her fingertips as she spun on the doorway.

Laurentius staggered forth into the room and fell to his knees. His left eye was swollen shut, his lip cracked and busted, and a trickle of blood had stained his mustache below the nose. He raised his hands in the air, and just as Quelana was readying to ask what happened, another man appeared behind the pyromancer.

Her mouth fell agape. "How can this be..."

The knight of Carim, Lautrec, stepped into the room behind the pyromancer, a crossbow held in his arms and angled down at Laurentius' back. The knight's golden armor was gone, replaced with dark leathers, and his face was more heavily bearded then when she'd seen him last on the bridge in the Burg, but it was him; there was no denying it - Lautrec was alive.

Muffled shouts came from Abby beside her, and when Quelana looked, the girl's eyes were wide and filled with an energy she hadn't seen in Abby in a long time.

"Cut her out of there, witch," Lautrec's voice came, just as stern and cold as she remembered it.

Quelana spun back to face him. "How are you alive? You were stabbed and-"

"It's a long story that doesn't matter," Lautrec interrupted. "Now cut the girl loose."

Quelana looked from Lautrec to Laurentius, who avoided her eyes as a look of deep shame stole across his face, and finally to Abby. The girl was twisting her wrists against the chair eagerly, staring at the knight with a hopeful raise of her brow. "What are you going to do with her?" Quelana demanded.

"Not your concern."

"It _is _my concern!" Quelana snapped. "Listen to me, knight, if you're with Logan, whatever you think he's doing, I-"

"Hold your tongue if you don't want to see the pyromancer with a bolt through his forehead," Lautrec said calmly. "This is the last time I'm going to tell you, witch. Free the girl. Now."

"I'm so sorry, my lady," Laurentius whispered.

Quelana held her eyes on Lautrec's for one, long, pleading moment, but when she found no sympathy there, she sighed and turned to Abby. Abby squinted at her and balled her hands into fists, jerking at the ropes. With no other option, Quelana fell to one knee and began loosening the knots binding her in place. When it was done, Abby rose from the chair so suddenly, she nearly collapsed, taking hold of the bedpost to steady her footing. Her balance regained, she ripped the gag free and stumbled forth to Lautrec. The knight's brow raised as she fell to his chest and wrapped her arms around him.

"Abby, what-"

"I prayed every night for you, Lautrec," Abby said, her voice muffled against his chest. "I prayed to old Gods and new Gods and any Gods who would listen. And now they sent you back to me. I'm not alone anymore. I have you. I have my knight."

Lautrec frowned, fixing the girl with an uncertain look, but did not pry her from his body. He returned his eyes to Quelana, keeping the crossbow fixed on Laurentius between them. "The pyromancer here and I had our... _discussion _on your whereabouts in private. Do you understand? No one else knows where you are. I don't intend on telling anyone. So if you were wise... you'd flee this castle before it crashes down around you."

"Where are you taking Abby," Quelana demaned.

"Don't tell her," Abby whimpered into Lautrec's chest. "She's an imposter."

"Should you flee this castle, you might find friends at the Undead Parish," Lautrec went on. "Though you might also find enemies atop Sen's Fortress. That is all the information I'm offering you, witch. Take it as you will. We won't see each other again." He draped one hand around Abby's shoulder to keep her close and began backstepping out of the room.

"Lautrec, _stop_!" Quelana pleaded. "I... listen to me, I know you're not a... _bad _man. I perhaps judged you too harshly before. I spoke with Anastacia. I know... well, I know everything."

An anger flashed across the knight's face so quickly, she might have missed it had she blinked.

"You're not a bad man, knight," she went on. "So don't do anything to Abby that would make those words untrue! Do you hear me! _Save _her!"

But Lautrec had already vanished around the corner.

Laurentius rose to his feet and crossed the room. "My lady, I am so sorry. He took me unawares! I'm not even sure how he knew-"

"_Enough_," Quelana hissed, shouldering past him to the door. She leaned out just in time to see Lautrec carrying Abby in his arms as if she were his bride and taking the turn at the end of the hall.

"My lady... what are you doing?"

"I'm following him," Quelana explained, pulling her robes tighter to her body.

Laurentius shook his head. "I... would greatly suggest against that. If Logan's guard found you, my lady, I cannot protect you from what they might do."

"That knight just walked out of here with Lordran's future!" Quelana told him. "If harm should befall her, none of this matters! Do you understand that? Now are you coming with me or not?"

Laurentius held her eyes. He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

_Craven of a man, _she thought, turned, and fled from the room just as the pyromancer was reaching to stop her.

She darted down the length of the hall keeping close to the walls should she need to duck into a doorway to hide herself. She reached the end without interruption, leaned beside it to peak into the next hall, and hurried forward, listening for the man's footsteps. The sound led her to a spiraling staircase. She moved down it, taking the steps in twos, and pressed against the doorway at its bottom. The Great Hall awaited outside. It was mostly abandoned, save for a smattering of men in the corner, talking and drinking, and Lautrec at the far end, carrying Abby out around a bend. Quelana's eyes flicked from him to the men, saw no path that would no reveal herself, and rushed out anyway.

She could feel their eyes upon her as she sprinted across the hall. One man shouted something, but his words were lost as two others yelled. Chairs scraped the stone flooring, but by then, Quelana had reached the other side and slipped out the passageway. She was in the library. Her eyes caught movement on the second floor balcony. Lautrec had ascended the stairs there and was carrying Abby along its narrow walkway, heading towards a square peg cut into the bookshelves that looked to lead outside. Behind her, the men's voices were nearing. Quelana ran.

She climbed the stairs at the head of the library, rounding up its bend to ascend another flight before halting on the second floor. She glanced over the railing and saw men spilling out of the Great Hall exit she'd just come from. _There is no way but forward now, _she thought. She dashed down the length of the balcony and rounded the corner.

A harsh, biting, wind greeted her immediately. The passage spilled out to an outer balcony that overlooked the Archive's garden. Quelana lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the winds and snows and marched forward. On the balcony itself, the stone floor was layered in a foot of snowfall, and she could clearly see a man's steps leading forth and down a decline ramp. A massive tower awaited, and Quelana knew at once, though she'd never seen it from that angle, that Lautrec was taking Abby to Logan.

The thought lit a fire beneath her feet. She trudged forth, kicking tufts of snow into the winds as her legs and feet cut trenches in the snow, melting it where her bare skin fell upon it. She reached the end of the ramp, stepped beneath the high arch of an inner sect of the balcony and spotted the footsteps trailing into a doorway. She moved forth to follow and-

-hands grabbed her wrists, spun her, and _slammed _her back into the wall. She yelped, but her hands were held too close to her own face to ignite her flames. The blade of a dagger pressed into the soft flesh of her throat, and the ugly face of the Knight of Thorns appeared not three inches from her own. "Well, hello, fire bitch," he greeted, his breath as foul as the swamps of Blighttown.

"Let me _go_!" Quelana hissed, struggling in his grip.

The men who'd been chasing after her from the Great Hall appeared at the top of the ramp.

Kirk raised a hand to halt them. "Pursuit's over, boys," he called to them with a grin. "Your fearless captain of the guard has captured the infamous fire bitch!"

A roar of cheers and laughter rose from the men.

Kirk bowed, taking it in, and set his eyes back on hers. "Now, Logan's orders are to take you to him _immediately _should you be captured," he said, licking at his lips. "But, well... I think he's probably rather busy with that bastard of a knight who just passed, so... how about you and I have some fun? Remember? Like the _fun _we wanted to have back in the Burg?" He laughed.

"What should we do, captain?" A man called from the ramp.

"Run along, boys," Kirk told them. He pulled Quelana from the wall, spun her so her back was pressed to his chest, and kept a tight grip on her wrists, holding them beside her own face. "I'm going to take the fire bitch here to the cells. Then I'm going to show her why they _really _call me the Knight of Thorns."

The man began walking her forward, and Quelana had no choice with her wrists gripped in his own and her back to his chest but to walk with him. She did not doubt that something very terrible was about to befall her, but she could not turn her thoughts from Abby.

_You're not a bad man, _she had told Lautrec. _Prove me right, knight. _

_ Please prove me right._


	29. Chapter 29

"Are you taking me to Logan?"

It was the first words she'd uttered in such a long time, Lautrec was startled when she spoke them. The queer and flat way the words played off the prison tower's dark, rounded, walls along with the hoarse sound of Abby's voice didn't help. He looked upon the girl held in his arms, as light as a sack of grain, and nodded. "Yes."

Abby stared at him, the pretty exuberance once held in her blue eyes long gone since Lautrec had last seen her, the cheeks below them gaunt and emaciated. "Okay," she whispered. "If you think it's for the best, my knight."

_Logan did not lie, _Lautrec thought, lifting his head to avoid the girl's strange, probing, stare. _Her mind is failing her._

"We'll have to leave when we're done here," Abby went on. "Quickly. There are terrible things coming. They all call me mad now, but, well, I don't _feel _mad. Do you think I'm mad, Lautrec?"

"No," he lied. "Just be quiet for a while, Abby."

A cold wind swept up from the base of the tower, sending the blue torches ensconced along its outer rim into a wild dance, casting their blue glow in flickering patterns across the walls. The golems' thunderous footsteps could be heard even from the top of the spiraling staircase that led to them, and as Lautrec walked it, the thumping seemed to synchronize with the pounding of his own heart. He ran his fingers along the smooth silk of Abby's gown and steadied his breath. _Calm yourself, _he thought. _You'll need your wits more than ever in the coming moments._

As they neared the bottom, passing rows of barred cells that stunk of old wood and lost time, Abby began fidgeting in his arms. "Stop that," he told her calmly.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm afraid."

He looked upon her again. The girl had taken handfuls of her gown near her chest and balled fists around them. Her eyes had grown wide and her breathing sporadic. "There's nothing to be afraid of," he told her. _Then why are _you_ afraid? _An inner voice questioned.

"Where will we go after this?" Abby asked, resting her head against his chest.

"I don't know."

"But you'll protect me..."

Lautrec sighed. "I... suppose."

Abby was quiet for a moment, then her hands reached out and cupped his face. "I can be your wife."

He craned his neck back to free himself from her hold, frowning. "Abby just... just be _quiet _for now, alright?"

"I still have my maidenhood," she went on anyway. "Chester wanted it, but... he was a demon just like the rest of them. You can have me, though, Lautrec. I can give you children. You can take me to Carim and I'll give you children and I'll never bother you and I'll cook your meals and-"

"_Please_," he snapped, shaking her in his arms a bit harder than he'd intended to.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I'll do as you say like a good wife should. If you want me to be quiet, I'll never speak again. I'll obey you and love you and raise your children and I swear I won't bother you, just... just please don't let them take me. _Please_, Lautrec. I thought I was brave enough... to maybe... go to them. But I'm not brave like you, my knight. I'm not. And now they're threatening to come. Don't let them take me."

"Let _who _take you?"

"All of them," she whispered, swiping tears from the corners of her eyes. "The demons and the hollows and the knights and the fat one. Yes. And the tall one. And the one who isn't sure if he's a she or if she's a he. I don't want to go with them. Please don't let them take me."

_She is truly lost, _he thought, holding her eyes as they grew rheumy above the dark circles beneath. _I will give her the peace of death, _Logan had told him. Lautrec hadn't truly understood the phrase until just then, staring into the eyes of a shattered mind. "No one's taking you anywhere, alright? Can you please be quiet now?"

She was trembling in his arms, but she pressed her lips together and nodded and spoke no more for the rest of the descent.

The golems were the first thing to greet them upon arrival. The hulking blue monstrosities lumbered forth from the massive tower of machinery in the room's center, crowding around Lautrec as Abby pressed her face into his chest to hide herself. He looked from one to the next, the blank and featureless heads atop their tree trunk necks seeming to stare directly _into _him.

"Bring her here, Lautrec," Logan's deep voice boomed from beside the machine, and Lautrec noted it was the only thing in the tower that seemed to catch off the walls, echoing the words back and forth in a haunting way.

He squeezed Abby a bit tighter to his body and turned sideways to slip between two golems, holding a baleful glare upon them as he went. Logan was waiting beside his mad machine, his long, crimson, robe spilling to the floor and pooling around him, his massive hat brim wobbling as he nodded his head.

"A man who can get things done," he greeted, spreading his arms wide as Lautrec neared. "I chose you for a reason and that reason is more apparent now than ever before. Well done, knight. Well done. Hello, Abby. Dear? Are you crying?"

Abby sniffled and shook her head. "No, Logan."

"Well, good! You shouldn't be! The courageous knight whose arms you rest in and myself have gone to great measures to ensure you safely away from those wretched cultists." Logan stepped forward to look upon Abby. Lautrec saw the man's face looked somehow _older_ than it had not two hours earlier when they'd spoken. The wrinkles had grown more pronounced, the skin sagged just a bit looser, and even the man's _hair _seemed to wither and gray in the brief time. His bushy eyebrows were peaked sympathetically as he fixed Abby with a smile. "You're in a great deal of suffering now, aren't you Abby?"

"...can't sleep..." she quietly responded.

"Demons in your dreams?"

She nodded.

He returned the gesture. "You want the pain to be over, don't you?"

She nodded.

His smile widened. "Then over it shall be, dear." He lifted his eyes to Lautrec. "Bring her here."

Logan crossed to his machine and Lautrec followed, glancing back to see the nine golems standing sentinel at the base of the staircase. The sorcerer had set a table up at the front of the towering stack of cogs and piping, and as he moved around it, his hand patted its top. "Set her down."

Lautrec moved to the other side of the table and began to lean forward to release Abby, but the her arms wrapped around his neck and she pulled herself tight to his chest. "What are you _doing_, girl?"

Her lips came so close to his ear, he could feel the warmth of her breath. "_I don't trust him,_" she whispered, her voice trembling as violently as her body.

"Let go of me, Abby," he told her, taking hold of her arms and prying them loose.

She released him and allowed herself to be lowered to the table. Lautrec looked down at her, lying there in robes that draped loosely over a frame that had grown unhealthily thin, and a face that had once been pretty and alive and now was stressed with lines of paranoia and fear and illness and he wonder what had happened. Where had it all gone wrong.

_There will be blood spilled here, _he thought, recalling the distant echo of a long lost voice. He lifted his head to stare at Logan. "Has this ever happened before?"

Logan moved down the length of the table to stand beside Abby's head. He ran his slender fingers through what little hair she had and smiled disarmingly at her. "Has what happened, Lautrec?"

"If the world moves in cycles," Lautrec said. "Have we ever made it this far in a previous 'cycle'? Have you ever had Abby lying here on this table before?"

"The world cycles. The _Chosen _is never the same," Logan explained. His hand moved from Abby's hair to her cheek, stroking it gently as Abby lip quivered and a tear rolled her cheek to pool at the table beneath her. "So, no. This has never happened before."

"What about with another Chosen? This all feels... very familiar," Lautrec pressed on. His skin suddenly felt very warm, as if taken by a fever, and his breath tasted foreign upon his tongue.

"We have tried more than once," Logan admitted, nodding. His hand moved from Abby's cheek to her eyes, cupping over them to blind her. Abby whimpered and he shushed her. "No, dear. The suffering is almost over now." He waited for her to quiet before continuing in a wistful, quiet, voice. "You would have made a lovely Queen had things gone... better."

_There will be blood spilled here_. Lautrec looked back to the golems. They hadn't moved. Their hulking bodies swayed a bit as they stood, but they were otherwise as still as stone. They were watching.

Lautrec's attention was pulled back to the table by the _schk _of a dagger coming unsheathed. He turned and saw Logan had a blade pressed to Abby's throat. "Just... wait," Lautrec said. His head had grown light and his vision dimmed. "Are you _sure _there is no other way?"

"_Other _way?" Logan questioned. "Lautrec, we went over this. What else is there to be done, my friend? The girl will have her peace, and the machine will offer salvation." He glanced over his shoulder at the wooden and steel monstrosity behind him. "And should our Creators still be watching over us. If, perhaps, they haven't _all _abandoned us to the cruel Gods who toy with our lives... then we will show them our ambition to change." He returned his gaze to Abby, her eyes still shielded beneath his hand. He trickled the blade beneath her chin. "We will show them we are willing to live in a world free of Gods and rules and... Chosen. Here! Now! Before the machine! Let the Creators see our _desires_!"

Abby's hands were trembling so violently, her knuckles were rattling against the table. She opened her mouth and jagged breath came out. "..._b_-_bonfire_..."

"Oh, don't worry, Abby," Logan cooed, running the thumb of his hand over her cheek. "I've had that bonfire dismantled. You won't return to suffer. You will close your eyes and you will finally have your rest."

"..._rest_...?" She croaked.

"And _you_," Logan went on, raising his eyes to Lautrec. "Have a reward coming, I believe. Yes. In fact, we'll go see our lovely little firekeeper right after this. Would you like that, Lautrec?"

_Laughing, Crying, Begging, the charred corpses of a man and wife. _"Yes," Lautrec answered, putting aside the thought of Anastacia lest it drive his as mad as Abby.

"Yes," Logan said. "Then that is just what we shall do."

_There will be blood spilled here. _

Logan took a breath, looking upon Abby with an almost sympathetic expression upon his wrinkled face. "Such a shame." He looked to the top of the tower. "Are you watching you cruel Gods? Here lies your _play thing_! Can you see the pain you cause her!? The pain you cause _all of us_! _NO MORE!_"

His shout bounced up into the very top of the tower, carrying ghostly trails of his words for a long time. Lautrec glanced back at the golems: still there; still watching.

_You're not a bad man, _Quelana spoke in his head. "I'm not a bad man," he agreed.

"What's that?" Logan questioned, and when Lautrec didn't answer, his smile widened. "Lautrec... don't let this weigh on your conscious. A _bad _man? _Bad_? Look at this world we live in. Good and bad... those are words of the simple and weak. Men like you and I... we are shades of grey, just as the rest of the world. When we were boys, we imagined sorcerers and warriors and _knights _that were 'good' and pure and true and noble and honest... and when we grew up, we looked at the men beneath their helmets and their caps and what did we find? That the armor was a lie. A shiny, pretty, lie, and we all bought into it when in truth? The lie hid the dirty faces of murders and rapists and thieves. _That _is what our heroes were. Not men of black or white, but men of _grey_ And when everyone is grey, what is there to separate us? Our _ambition_."

Lautrec's fingers itched madly. He brought his hands together to scratch them.

"_Good_ is a word for the unambitious so that when they look upon men with more than they have, they can lie to themselves and say that they had at least lived 'good' lives." Logan sneered. "How long has this lie hindered our progress? How many _lives _have been wasted lying in the shackles of 'right and wrong'? There is only ambition, Lautrec, and you and I? We have it. We are men who get things done. Let them paint us as their villains. They only truly wish they had the courage or the bravery or the determination to be just as villainous. They don't, however. And so... the lie goes on."

_There will be blood spilled here._

Logan lowered his face to Abby's and kissed her quivering lips. "Good night my Queen." He pressed the dagger to her throat.

"Logan," Lautrec said, halting him. When Logan lifted his head, Lautrec stuck his hand across the table.

Logan eyed it as a smile crept up his face. "You told me you only shake the hands of men you respect. Isn't that right?"

"Yes," he said.

Logan nodded, rising from Abby. "I told you," he said with a soft laugh. "You and I will be great friends in the coming change, knight. Oh yes." The sorcerer reached across the table and took Lautrec's hand in his own. He smiled and-

-Lautrec yanked him forward, reached for his shotel, and drove the curved blade into the side of the man's throat. It hooked into the soft flesh and Lautrec _ripped. _Logan's throat exploded in a geyser of blood as his mouth dropped open and his eyes bloomed as wide and white as freshly sprung orchids. A choked gurgle escaped his gaping mouth as his hands came up to his throat, as if to cradle the blood spilling from within and stop it from leaving him. He clawed at his cheeks instead, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he slumped forth onto the table then rolled off and landed dead on the floor with a muted _thump_.

Abby was sitting up on her elbows, staring at Logan's corpse, a look of stunned incredulity on her face.

"Don't look at him. Close your eyes," Lautrec commanded of her, which she did immediately and without question, and he bent and scooped her back into his arms.

He spun to face the golems. They were still standing at the base of the stairs, still and quiet and watching from heads with no eyes. Lautrec held just as still, watching them for attack, listening as his heart thundered in his chest. When they did not come, he swallowed and stepped forward. _Logan commanded them, _he assured himself. _Logan's dead. So are they._ He pulled Abby tight to his chest and stepped before the creatures.

"What's happening," Abby whispered, here eyes still clenched tightly shut.

Lautrec ignored her, turning sideways to move between the first two golems, his eyes holding on their burly upper bodies and arms that could reach out and crush both Abby and himself into nothing. He angled the girl in his arms so her legs and feet did not touch the things, ducked beneath a thick arm hanging in his path like a down tree, and sidestepped the two nearest to the stairs.

When his feet fell to the first step, the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding burst from his chest. He stole a quick glance at the things to make sure they weren't giving pursuit. They weren't. He began to run.

"Why are you running?" Abby asked, her voice thick with trepidation. "Can I open my eyes?"

"Yes," he told her. "And I don't know why I'm running." _Because this is mad. This whole thing is mad and now your mind is as lost as the girl's. The two of you-_

"I can walk," she told him, interrupting his thoughts.

He didn't release her, though he couldn't be sure if it was for _her _sake or his own.

"You killed him," Abby said when he didn't respond. "You killed Logan."

"Yes."

"...to protect me?"

"I... I'm not sure," Lautrec admitted. "You said you didn't trust him. In the moment, neither did I. I'm a knight. We learn to trust our instincts or we learn to die."

His wind was leaving him, and so Lautrec slowed to a halt, resting against the staircases outer barrier. He looked down up the golems. They hadn't moved. That was a good thing. Abby leaned forward and kissed his cheek. He pulled his head away. "Abby, stop it."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I knew you would protect me, though, I just _knew _it. I prayed to the Gods to send you back to me and they did." She smiled, and the prettiness of the expression nearly vanquished the gauntness of her cheeks and the dark circles beneath her eyes. "Are we leaving now?"

"No," he told her and began climbing the stairs again at a slower pace. "I can't leave without dealing with Anastacia."

Abby stared up at him. "That's why you won't take me as your wife, isn't it? You love her. I understand."

"She's my sister," he told her, and the words felt so strange coming from his tongue, the voice they belonged to hardly sounded like his own. He frowned down at Abby, wondering why he'd told her that. He'd never told _anyone _that.

"_Sister_?" Abby echoed. Her eyes studied his face, as if checking for verisimilitude. A smile crept upon her lips. "Yes, of course. You look so alike." Her look darkened. "You're going to kill her too, aren't you. Like Logan?"

"Yes."

"...is she bad like him?"

"Very bad."

"...then I understand," Abby said after a silence. "I trust you. You're the only one I can now. You saved me. You're my knight... and I would hope, someday, my husband."

_thump - thump - thump_

Lautrec shared a look of dread with Abby. He moved to the barrier and peered down to the tower's bottom. The golems were moving again, coming up the steps behind the two of them.

And Logan's body was missing.

"That's impossible," Lautrec muttered.

"I don't want to be in here anymore," Abby said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He broke into a run again as the _thumping _of the golems footsteps trailed behind them. They reached the ladder leading to the Archive's balcony. Abby offered to climb it herself, but Lautrec wasn't ready to release her. He moved her to his shoulder, took the rungs in his hands, and climbed. It was not easy, and twice he had to halt to steady them and catch his breath, but soon enough they reached the top.

Lautrec shifted Abby's weight back down between his arms and was readying to carry her out onto the balcony when the blank, wide-eyed, stare on the girl's face held his feet in place. "Gods, What _now_?"

"Oh no," Abby whispered. "No, no, no. Please."

"Abby, _what_!?" He shouted, shaking her.

Her eyes drifted to his. "We're too late... I'm sorry. I tried." She hugged him, her tearful face disappearing over his shoulder. "They felt the danger I was in before... they're very angry. They started coming. I can't stop them anymore."

"...angry? How-"

She sniffled. "I'm so sorry. They're coming."

"Abby, _who _is-"

_Aaawwooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

His words were lost in the shrill blare of a war horn wailing from somewhere higher in the castle.

_Aaawwoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

Abby tightened her squeeze. "I'm sorry."

Lautrec opened his mouth to ask her what exactly was happening, but the words never needed to be spoken. The men's shouts answered the question for him.

"_Man the wall!_" A voice screamed deeper in the castle ahead. "_Man the wall! The hollows are marching! The hollows are marching! Man the wall!"_

_ "The hollows march from Anor Londo!_"


	30. Chapter 30

A old man with no teeth left in his mouth and a great, gaping, pit where his left eye should have been rushed to the front of his cell and wrapped his dirty hands around the bars when he saw her approaching. The man's tongue darted out and licked at his dry, cracking, lips. "Brought me a present today, oh sweet knight? Something to help an old prisoner like me... _pass the time_ perhaps?" He cackled, but the sound turned into a fit of coughs.

Kirk squeezed Quelana's wrists together a bit tighter and pulled her from the old man's grasping arms. "Piss off, old man," he hissed. "The witch is mine."

"_Witch_?" The man's eyes fell to hers and narrowed. His dirty face twisted into a grimace. "Why didn't you say so? Get that thing _away _from me!"

The Knight of Thorns did just that. He kept her pinned close to his body as he marched her deeper into the Archive's prison. The place was dim, damp, and foul smelling, but it was world's away from Logan's secret dungeon at the base of his tower, and Quelana was, at least, thankful for that. Cells lined the walls, their bars rusted, their stone floors filthy and littered with buckets of waste and the bones of rats and mice. They passed another old man rotting away in a cell and Quelana wondered what their crime had been, if there had _been _a crime at all. The man lifted his head as they passed, watching and scratching at his groin. The next cell housed a woman, just as old as the first two, her hair greyed and falling from her head in loose, frizzy, tufts. She was smiling madly and cradling her knees to rock back and forth on the floor of her prison. If she noticed them, she made no indication she had. Two cells deeper, a younger man in chainmail armor was resting with his head to the wall, his arms folded across his chest, and a look upon his face that Quelana could only think of as crestfallen.

The last two cells, separated by the narrow gap of the walkway between them, housed Tarkus to her left, and a beaten, battered, shell of a man lying to her right that, upon further inspection, she saw was the Knight Solaire. His face was swollen, dried blood caked his nose and lip, and his eyes were shut. _That poor man, _Quelana thought. _All around me, the good suffer and the wicked triumph. What cruel Gods watch over us?_

Tarkus rose beside her, and the sight of the giant man lifting in her periphery pulled her attention back to him. He walked to the front of his cell and wrapped his hands around the bars like the old man had in the _first _cell, and Quelana was relieved to see ten, meaty, fingers protruding from the knuckles; she had heard from Laurentius that Kirk and his men were threatening to cut them off.

"What are you doing with her, craven?" Tarkus questioned. "You're not thinking of beating on a _woman _now are you? Surely not even _you _are so vile?"

Kirk unsheathed his barbed sword and threw a jab at Tarkus. The mammoth of a man had to duck back from the bars to avoid being skewered. "This is no woman, you ape. This is a _witch_. And I'm not beating her... no, we're going to have much more fun than that." He laughed.

Tarkus' look darkened. "You coward. Open my cell and face me - you with your pathetic little sword and me with my bare hands. I'd _still _break your bones."

Kirk chortled, but otherwise ignored the threat. He forced Quelana back to the wall at the end of the cells, spun her, and shoved her into it. Her hands came briefly free, but the knight was quick to snatch them back up and pin them up over her head. Flames lashed from her fingertips to scratch at the ceiling. Kirk's eyes lifted there and the man grinned. "Oh you know _just _how to heat me up, witch."

"May your soul rot in Izalith when death finally comes for you," Quelana said, struggling in his grip.

Kirk stared at her, his eyes flicked across the features of her face and his breath growing more labored. "You know, when I saw you on the bridge in the Burg that day I just _knew _it was our destiny to be together." Quelana lifted her knee to his groin, but the knight shifted to block the blow and grabbed her violently by the chin, steadying her head so her eyes met his own. "Yeah, that's right. Fight me. I prefer it like that." She tried, but he was far stronger, and without her flames, she was useless. "Tell me," he began after she'd settled down, "Whatever hell you and your mother and your sisters climbed out of... you look a whole lot like us humans." His grin widened. "So my question is: just _how _human are you?"

His foot landed between her own and kicked at her ankle, forcing her legs to spread a bit wider. Kirk licked at his lips, released her chin, and grabbed his sword. He lifted it to her cheek and set the barbed blade gently against her flesh there.

"You son of a bitch..." Tarkus growled from his cell.

Kirk ignored him. He dragged the sword ever so slightly along Quelana's cheek, and she winced as the barbs tore at her skin. _Don't scream, _she pleaded. _Don't give this creature the satisfaction. _The sword came away from her cheek, disappeared below her chest, and she felt it press against her inner thigh. "Are you _truly _all-woman?" Kirk asked. The playfulness of his voice was all but gone then, only a heavy, lusty, tone remaining. The sword lifted higher between her legs, lifting her robes up as it rose. "I'm going to put a child in you," Kirk told her. "And we'll see if it comes out with horns... or perhaps _barbs_!" His grip tightened on her hands and he reached to his waist and-

-the knight's posture stiffened, his mouth fell agape, and he trembled sporadically as a queer yellow light flickered around his body. "_ARK-!_" Kirk screeched from clenched teeth. His eyes rolled back into his head as the yellow light-_Lightning, _Quelana thought, _It's lightning_-wrapped around his torso, his arms, his neck, and finally his hideous face. His grip faltered around her wrists, and the man collapsed to his knees before her. His eyes fell on her briefly, wide and scared and confused, then he slumped over on his side to the floor; unconscious or dead, Quelana could not tell.

Kirk cleared from her vision, Quelana saw the Knight Solaire standing tall in his cell, his arm raised high above him, the electric residue of the lightning still cackling and biting at the air around it. "Praise the son you vile beast," he said quietly, fixing Kirk's body with a stoic look. "And let it never shine on you again."

Tarkus was staring at the knight, his eyes just as wide and incredulous as Quelana's. "_Solaire_... how did you... you don't even have a _talisman_!"

The lightning finally subsiding around his arm, the knight lowered it and looked between the two of them. "I... I'm not sure. It is something I have always been capable of."

"There was only one man in Lordran who could do what you just did," Quelana said. "Nearly all of my pupils spoke of him at one time or another. The Keeper of the Kiln. Lord of Sunlight. Lord of _Cinder_. Gwyn."

A quiet moment passed between the three of them as they exchanged uncertain looks. It was Tarkus who broke the silence. "The key! The bastard was captain of the guard, he must have a key on him! Hurry, Quelana, before his bastard friends arrive."

Quelana nodded, fell to her knees, and dug into the man's pockets. Her eyes kept a wary watch on his own for signs of life, but none came. She found a ring of keys hooked to his belt beneath his belly, unlatched them, and rushed to the cell door. As she began trying at different keys to free Tarkus, she said, "A knight I rode with, Lautrec is his name, came here. He took Abby to Logan. I have to go to them." She found the right key and the door popped open.

Tarkus had to duck his head beneath the barred passage. He stretched his arms and smiled. "The only thing that would feel better right now is a greatsword in my hand. I'll need to retrieve that sooner rather than later."

Quelana crossed the hall and opened Solaire's cell. He stepped free and bowed graciously. "Thank you, my lady."

"Repay me and help me save Abby," Quelana said. "The missing children are down there in the prison tower as well." She looked between Tarkus and Solaire. "The three of us can go down there together. We can _kill _Logan, save the children, and rescue Abby."

Solaire frowned. "Kill Logan? My lady, that is-"

"Open your bloody _eyes, _Solaire," Tarkus interjected. "The sorcerer is a madman. I know he saved your life when the first Chosen still roamed Lordran, but-"

"-but he is insane with power and he keeps children and beasts and a _crossbreed _locked away in his dungeon," Quelana finished for the big man. "Solaire, come with us and I can show it to you. You don't have to act against Logan until you see with your own eyes what horrors he keeps."

Solaire's eyes were darting between the two of them, looking desperate for some answer to their accusations. When he, apparently, came up with none, his shoulders slumped and he gave a defeated nod of his head. "...alright. I will go with you. But we must hear _both _sides of the story! We-"

_Aawwoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

The blaring of a distant horn came so shrill and loud and unexpected, Quelana felt flames rise in her palm as her heart skipped a beat. Both Solaire and Tarkus stiffened and held each other's gaze.

"If it comes twice-" Tarkus began, but whatever he was going to say was lost.

_Aawwoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

"Gods help us," the man muttered.

"What _is_ that?" Quelana snapped. Her stomach was lurching, threatening to overturn.

"The hollows are marching," Solaire answered quietly, staring over her shoulder into nothing. "Praise the Sun, the hollows are coming." Purpose filled his eyes, shaking free the vacant look. "I have to go. They need leadership."

"Abby wasn't mad then!?" Quelana spoke, louder than she'd intended, and grabbed at his arm.

"Let him go, Quelana," Tarkus told her softly. "This castle needs him more than you."

With a moment's hesitation, she released Solaire. He bowed, snatched Kirk's barbed sword from the ground at his feet, and turned to sprint from the cells. Quelana turned her eyes on Tarkus. "What do we do then? Abby is in danger! I can't abandon her!"

Tarkus scratched at his lightly bearded chin. "Find Rhea. She's been studying up on what sort of spell the children might be under. Supposed to have worked up some miracle to fix them. Rickert won't be far from her. The three of you go and do what you can. I can't come, witch, I'm sorry. I need to find my sword and then I need to smash a whole lot of hollows. If the castle falls... we _all _fall."

Quelana nodded. "Okay. Where is the priestess?"

Tarkus thought. "Perhaps on the wall. We've been having her and Rickert spy on the soldier's training. I will-"

"_Hey!_"

The shout pulled both their eyes to the far end of the hall. Petrus was standing there, thick in his heavy armor, a morning star clutched menacingly in his hands. The man marched forth, lifting his shield, and spotted Kirk lying at the rear of the prison. "You bastards!" He growled.

Tarkus wore no shirt or shoes, held no weapon nor shield, but he screamed a warcry that carried _none _of those concerns, lowered his shoulder, and charged the man. Petrus' eyes widened, and he stood frozen to the spot nonplussed. Tarkus' shoulder drove into the man's shield, splintering it at the corner, and Tarkus' meaty hands grabbed for the morning star, pried it loose, and drove the hilt of the thing down into Petrus' temple. The heavy-set man collapsed unconscious.

Tarkus drove a fist into his own chest and roared. "_Aye_! Many hollow will die today by these hands! Quelana... until we meet again. Good luck." He climbed over Petrus and disappeared around a bend in the hall.

_Find Rhea_, she thought, turned back once more to ensure Kirk had not risen like some demon clawing up from Izalith itself, and sprinted from the prison.

The library was chaos. A wave of frenetic shouting greeted her as she rushed to the balcony and peered over its banister. Men, women, even _children _were rushing from place to place, carrying buckets of water and crates of food, likely preparing to hold up in some inner keep of the castle should the main gate fall. Young men were spilling out of the hall near the barracks, pulling boots to their feet and helms to their heads. One man wielding a short sword came rushing down the length of the balcony, but when Quelana spun and ignited her pyromancy in defense, he only fixed her with a frown and sidled past her. "Move _aside_, witch!" He snapped, passed, and hurried off.

_I'm the least of their concerns now, _she realized, quelling the flame. That was a good thing; it meant she could move about unhindered. Quelana stole one last glance to the lower level of the library, where a trio of archers were strapping quivers to each others backs, and took off down the length of the balcony to find Rhea.

The guard tower was nestled into the corner of the castle near the front, and Quelana took the steps in twos as she bounded upwards. She nearly collided with two crossbowmen who were making the climb as well, but more slowly as they were encumbered with leathers and she only in her robes. Quelana slipped between them, and neither bothered to so much as say a word to her when she did so.

Sunlight and snow and coldness greeted her upon spilling out of the guard tower to the upper wall. A dozen archers were lined at the parapets, staring down upon Anor Londo in silence. Rhea was at the far end of them, watching herself, a look of fear wrinkling her comely face. Quelana sent a lick of flame to clear the snows from her path, and darted forth to the priestess.

"_Rhea_," she called. "Come with me! The time to act is now! We must take advantage of this chaos and-"

Rhea was still staring forward, as if she hadn't heard a word Quelana said.

"Rhea?" Quelana questioned, stepping beside the woman and tugging at her arm.

"Hm?" Rhea answered, but did not pry her eyes away.

Quelana traced their gaze to the city and her mouth fell agape. "Mother Izalith..." she muttered upon seeing what awaited within.

The last time she'd glimpsed the city, there had been dozens of hollows swarming about, bearing torches and spears and swords. They had looked unpleasant, certainly, but nothing too great for the castle to handle. That was no longer true. Now _hundreds _were clustered together so tightly, their heads moving about gave the impression that the streets themselves had come aliveand were shifting and swaying and moving forth in a relentless stream of death. Hollows were pouring from the opened doorways of the city streets, filtering out of the shattered windows of the churches, clambering up from the bridges and walkways, _erupting _from within the big doors of the Great Chapel. Further down along the bridge leading to the upper wall, four hollows had collared and leashed a massive boar, the things head adorned with a steel helm; matching plating draping from its sides. Winged demons, pale and fanged, were screeching and batting their veiny wings as they soared overhead, jabbing at the hollows who fell out of line with the sharpened tips of long, white, spears. She spotted hollows with crossbows dashing down a ramp to work themselves into the horde. Another cluster wielding torches and daggers burst free from the horde to melt away snow in the path. At the tail end of the river of dead, tall knights adorned in shiny, silver, armor stood tall and stoic and as still as stone. Some carried swords and lances, but the most menacing-looking of the lot were the two in the back with giant greatbows that stood end-to-end as tall as the knights themselves.

"This is no small force..." Quelana whispered. "This is an _army_. The men and women of this castle can't possibly hold all of that back!"

"No," Rhea agreed quietly beside her. "We can't."

"We have to leave," Quelana said, unable to pry her eyes from the mass of death marching upon them from the city below. "Come on."

"What?" Rhea asked, finally pulling herself from her daze. "What do you mean?"

"We're going to free the children and rescue Abby. Then we're going to flee this cursed castle."

"There's nowhere to go _now_," said Rhea.

Quelana would not let herself dwell on the hopelessness of Rhea's words. She cleared the thought from her head, took the priestess by the elbow, and pulled her away from the parapets. "_Rickert!" _Rhea called down further along the wall. "Come on! It's time to go!"

Rickert, who'd been standing on the other end of the archers, turned his gaze from the city to the two of them, and Quelana saw the usual lighthearted look of his face was missing, only a deep expression of trepidation lining it instead. "We're going to die," he muttered.

"Come _on_!" Rhea pleaded as Quelana kept her moving.

After one last terrified look out into the city, he came.

The chaotic sounds of the castle greeted them at the bottom of the guard tower, and now a _new _sound had joined the fray. The deep and rhythmic _thumping _that Quelana had first heard at the base of Logan's tower was approaching, trailing after a chorus of frightened screams and shouts. As the three of them moved onto the library balcony, a woman came rushing past them, shifted her feet to avoid collision, and wound up spilling to the floor on her hands and knees. Rickert moved to help her up, but the woman swatted his hand away, scurried to her feet, and sprinted off without so much as saying a word.

"Quite rude, that one," Rickert said, watching her go.

_thump - thump - thump_

Rickert turned first, and his expression was enough to let Quelana know something very bad was coming there way. She spun to face it. Further down the balcony, the massive figure of a crystal golem came lumbering around the bend, its pegged feet driving deep cracks into the wooden floor as it marched forth. Its shoulders dragged against the bookshelf at its side, ripping the books there free, sending their papers flying about in a frenzy.

"Logan has sent his golems to protect the castle," Rhea said hopefully.

"I don't think so, Ray," Rickert said, taking the priestess by the hand and tugging her in the opposite direction.

A man knelt in the golem's path, his head lowered in concentration as he stuffed a quiver full with loose arrows. The golem stomped forth, but by the time the man looked up at the noise it was too late. The creature wrenched back one of its tree trunk arms and buried the thing in the man's side. Quelana could hear bones crack as the force lifted the man from his feet and sent him barreling right through the wooden banister of the balcony, shattering the thing into bits upon impact. He plummeted to the library below, landing with a resounding _thud _against the stone floor.

The golem marched forth.

"Come _on_!" Rickert shouted, pulling Quelana's gaze from the thing and reminding her feet to start moving.

They ran beneath a short tunnel connecting the two halves of the library. In the next room, a wooden lift was packed to the edges with men and women fleeing to the lower levels. Rickert halted them, spun, and dashed to the gate just as the woman who'd tripped before them earlier was slamming it shut.

"_Get away!_" She hissed. "It's _full_!"

Rickert ignored her, pried her hands loose, and slid the gate back, turning to gesture Rhea and Quelana forward. Rhea sidled past the woman, who shot her a baleful glare, but when Quelana neared, the woman shrieked. "It's the _witch!_" The other men and women turned their already-fearful eyes her way and some began to shout their protests.

"That thing ain't comin' on here!"

"Get it away!"

"She'll burn us all into our graves!"

"_Witch!_"

One man, short and blond-haired, pulled a sword free from his sheath and raised it menacingly in her direction. "Stay where you are!"

"What's the _matter _with you all!" Rhea pleaded, trying to clear some room aboard the lift. "She is not your enemy! It is _Logan _who has unleashed his golems upon you and it is the _hollow _who come to take your lives!"

"A panicked man hears only his own panic," Rickert told the priestess, then faced Quelana. "Show 'em some flame. That'll clear some room."

_thump - thump - thump_

Quelana raised her hand, letting her robe fall from her wrists, and commanded a spray of fire into the air. The men and women on the lift gasped and shrieked and clutched to their chest, but Rickert was right: they moved back. Quelana stepped onto the platform and Rhea slid the gate shut. The lever was pulled and the lift jerked into a slow descent to the next level.

Halfway down, the banister and corner pillar of the balcony above exploded, sending chunks of polished wood sailing through the air to the lower level. The people aboard the platform screamed again, and Quelana lifted her head to see the crystal golem towering above them, watching from the spot they'd stood no ten seconds earlier. Its head cocked sideways and its knees bent.

"It's going to dive on us," Quelana said. "Get off the platform."

"_What_?" Rhea spat.

"Get off the platform _NOW!_" Quelana shouted.

"We ain't at the bottom yet!" A man shouted back.

_A strong flame doe not waver. _Quelana brought her hands together at the wrists, raised them above her head, and angled her palms at the floor of the balcony. It was far, but she'd hit further. The golem moved forward and she commanded a pillar of fire to surge from her hands. It's flames snapped at the air as it twirled forward and baked the floor of the balcony, the heat blackening and warping the wood almost instantly. The golem lifted a hand to shield itself from the attack, thinking it was directed at the creature itself, and as it stood in defense, the ground around it gave way. The boards splintered with a final, defeated, _crack_, and the golem plummeted through the floor, trailing right past the lift beside them, and slammed the ground beneath with such force, a shallow crater of stone pooled around its body. The creature did not rise.

"Father Eternal..." Rhea muttered, leaning over the railing.

"Good show, witch," Rickert said, grinning. He turned to the crowd. "You see? Fire witch _good_. Golems _bad_. Understand yet?"

Their eyes fell to Quelana, the anger mostly replaced by a childlike awe, but none of them spoke.

The lift came to a halt at the lower level, and everyone rushed eagerly from the gates the moment they slid away. "We have to go back," Quelana insisted. "Is there another way to Logan's tower?"

"There are ways," Rhea said. "None of them exactly _easy_."

"It doesn't matter. We-"

"_Scouting party_!" A shout interrupted. The crowd turned to the second floor balcony, where a young man in loose fitting iron armor came tumbling around the corner, his helm spilling from his head as he grasped the rail to steady himself. He stare down upon them, wide-eyed and frantic. "There's a scouting party of hollows! Snuck up ahead 'fore the archers could loose their arrows! They're likely within the lower common hall and-"

The lift leading to the common hall at the end of the room came to life, whirring and humming as it rose.

"Too late..." the boy muttered, swiping at his sweaty brow. "Take up arms! _TAKE UP ARMS!_"

A wash of panic swept the crowd again, sending people running back for the lift, others scrambling forth with weapons clutched dearly in their shaking hands, other still lowering to their knees and praying to whatever Gods they prayed to. Rickert wrestled a catalyst free from his belt and stepped forward, Rhea at his side, her talisman in hand. The man who'd drawn his blade on Quelana earlier stepped beside them, fixing the coming lift with a frightened stare. Two young men and an older woman joined the trio, and Quelana saw one of the men carried only a chunk of wood that had come free from the golem's attack.

The lift neared, and now the stench of the hollow stung the air, putrid and necrotic; the sounds of their grunts and groans trailing after the smell.

"Are we going to d-die?" One of the young men asked.

"Someday," Rickert answered. "Hopefully not _this _day, though."

The man clutching the chunk of wood's knees began to wobble. He looked anxiously from the lift to the five people gathered around him, back to the lift, and finally threw the wood to the ground. "Piss on this!" He cried out and scrambled back towards the lift.

"A mighty brave lad, that one," Rickert said dryly.

"Clear out of the way," Quelana said.

Rickert, Rhea, and their three defenders turned towards her. "What?" Rhea questioned.

"Clear out. Now."

Rickert held her eyes for a moment, understanding down on his face. He nodded. "Yeah... okay. Come on, Ray. The rest of you _move_!"

When the front of the lift was clear, Quelana stepped forth and raised her arm. She pulled a deep breath, ignoring the hollow's stench, and focused on her hand. She curled her fingers, as if clutching a small stone, and commanded the flames to swirl there. It started as only a spinning pebble of red and orange, but as she focused, the pebble swelled and grew and lashed at the air, the colors inside burning from a soft orange to a searing, scorching, crimson.

The crowd gathered at her sides began backing away from her. Even Rickert backed away, wrapping his hand around Rhea protectively as his eyes held transfixed on the swirl of fire.

The spell grew and grew as the lift came near, and by the time the heads of the disgusting, hollowed, soldiers rose over the floor's edge, Quelana had formed a massive Chaos Fireball. She chucked it forth before the lift had a chance to halt. There were just under two dozen hollows packed in to the elevator, swords and spears and shields, clutched in their decaying fingers. Their mouths gaped open upon spotting her, hissing some otherworldly sound. The lift halted, the gates opened, and the hollows bunched together. They glowed red beneath the belly of death awaiting them. Their heads lifted to the spell, but by then it was far, far too late. The flame washed over them in a sea of fire, sending the tattered rags they wore ablaze and provoking shrill screams from their toothless mouths. When the fire fell to their feet, it bubbled into a lava upon the platform, decaying the wood in seconds and leaving the hollows who hadn't yet been burned to death to plummet back down the long fall to where they had come from.

When it was done, only Quelana and the scent of burning cloth remained.

Rickert stepped slowly to the empty lift, peered down it, and laughed. "Well... suppose we won't have to worry about anymore coming up _that _way."

"That was incredible," Rhea said, smiling at her and laying an appreciative hand on her shoulder.

The rest of the crowd inched forth from their various hiding spots. They gathered around Quelana, watching her as if she might burst into flames herself at any moment.

"Logan be damned," one man said. "I'll follow the _witch_!"

"Aye," another agreed.

"What do we do, witch?" A woman asked. "Where do we go?"

"Take us with you," another added.

"Aye, take us with you."

They pressed in tighter on her, and Quelana raised a hand to halt them. "Stop. Go find the Knight Solaire and he will find use for you. I am not a leader."

"Solaire? He ain't in command no more. _Kirk _got the command of the castle now."

"Not anymore," Quelana corrected the man. "You will take your order from Solaire and no one else. Not even Logan." She moved her eyes from person to person, letting her look linger just long enough on each of them to instil some fear. "You saw what I'm capable of. If you are with Logan... you are my enemy. And _Solaire's _enemy. Understood?"

A smattering of agreement made its way through the crowd.

"Good. Now go. He's likely at the front wall."

When they had cleared, only Rickert and Rhea remained at her side. "Good work, witch. You won 'em to our side," Rickert said with a nod. "For _now _at least."

"We'll go to the children now," Rhea said. "I know a path. Let us hope Logan's golems have all been dispersed. I can't imagine facing another eight of those things."

"Yes," Quelana agreed. _And let us hope Lautrec hasn't done anything we'll all regret. _"Lead on."

With that, the three of them headed deeper into the castle; the sound of a war drum banging outside drifting up from the shaft of the destroyed lift, approaching from Anor Londo, the army drawing near.


	31. Chapter 31

"_LOOSE!_"

The castle wall filled with the sound of three dozen arrows being sent from their bows to sail through the parapets and down to the snowy lands below in a volley of death. Some stuck the ground, their wooden shafts protruding from the snows like a flag of failure, others wobbled and bowed and missed their mark entirely, but _most _of the arrows-and Solaire liked to think his second day of archery practice with the men was at least partially responsible-found their target. The first cluster of hollows had been coming around the bend from Anor Londo, rushing to the tunnel entrance of the archives bearing swords and shield and torches, when Solaire had given the command, and now they were dropping in clumps of half-dozens, spilling to the snows with shafts stuck in their belly's and chest's, their corpses choking off the path of the next group.

As the next group of hollows began clambering over their fallen brethren, Solaire lifted his arm and gave the order to nock, aim, and loose once more. The anxious nerves of those who had missed on their first draw seemed to have shaken free, and nearly every one of the thirty-six arrows found a body to bring death upon. The hollows collapsed atop the corpses of those who'd came before them, screeching a wretched, primitive, sound as they tumbled wildly over one another. One of the creatures burst free from the pack, slashing his sword at the air before him hatefully, as if cutting down some invisible foe. He'd nearly disappeared beneath the rocky fall of cliff rising beneath the Archive's wall before an arrow took his left shoulder, the momentum counteracting against the hollow's _own_ momentum and sending him into a mad spin to the ground. He did not get back up.

Solaire looked to his side and saw his former squire, Henrik; the boy's eyes narrowed down upon the opponent he just fell. When his eyes drifted to Solaire's, the knight nodded his approval, and Henrik smiled. It was what was behindHenrik's shoulder that kept Solaire from returning the expression. Across the wall and beyond the hills to the East, the river of hollow soldiers stretched back along Anor Londo's upper wall, through its bridged section, and all the way back to its Great Chapel, where the largest of their force was gathered in a enormous circle as the sun faded in the West, painting them red and gold.

Solaire pulled his gaze from the sight, refusing to let it dampen his spirits, and raised his arm in command as the next cluster of hollows came rushing around the bend below the wall. "_LOOSE!_" He commanded, and another volley of arrows rained death upon their targets. _That's over one hundred arrows gone now, _he thought, watching as the hollows who hadn't fallen in the initial strike were methodically picked off by the archers. _We have less than five hundred left... Sun watch over us. _

He surveyed the men and women at his sides. If theywere as worried as he was, it wasn't showing, and that was good. The quivers of arrows at their boots were arranged so that the best quality arrows they had would be pulled first, but as they dug deeper and deeper within, Solaire knew the last of the arrows were poor things, wrestled free from animal carcases and trees and dirt, their shafts constructed of warped wood, their heads of chipped, haggard, metal. The archers were confident _now _when their strikes meant death to their opponents, but when they would start needing multiple shots to hit, Solaire could only hope it would not steal their determination.

"_LOOSE!_" He bellowed as the next cluster came pouring forth.

"Knight Solaire!" A voice called, and when he turned he saw the stout woman who'd been as fine a swordsman as any man amongst them, Winnie, come rushing forth, red in the face.

"My lady, what is it?"

"_Here!_" She cried out, beckoning him forth and turning to sprint down the length of the wall.

Solaire hopped from the raised bit of stone he'd been commanding from and followed after her. At the corner of the wall, she halted between the nook of parapets there and thrust a shaky finger down towards the path below. Solaire hurried up beside her and traced her point. "What's he _doing_!?" She asked.

A silver knight, protruding from the army of hollows around him like a shiny sword stuck in a stream of muddy, brown, water, had halted a group beside him and was staring up at the wall; the dark, gaping, pits of the thing's helm moving from end to end. It gestured back to the hollows, pointed towards Solaire, and fixed its look upon them once more.

"What do you think it's doin'?" The woman asked.

Solaire was opening his mouth to tell her he did not know when commotion amidst the hollows caught his eye. He craned his neck and leaned out over the parapets to see a chasm opening up in their center, the soldiers splitting apart so a rogue group could move forth. As they neared, Solaire saw they carried something large above their heads, something that required four of them to work together to move. The silver knight turned to them upon approach, bent to reach for it, and when he rose, an enormous greatbow came with him. The weapon stood end-to-end as tall as the knight himself. He set it into the ground at his feet, entrenching one end firmly into the snows there.

"_Henrik!_" Solaire called to the boy a bit further down the wall.

Henrik came running forth at once, skidding to a halt upon the icy surface of stone underfoot and nearly falling before Winnie took hold of him. "T-thank you, m'lady," he said, then to Solaire, "Sir?"

"There, Henrik," Solaire commanded, pointing at the silver knight. "Loose your arrows there. Stop whatever it is they're trying to accomplish."

The boy nodded, stepped up to the parapet, and nocked an arrow.

Solaire had made it halfway back to his post when movement caught his eye once again. He halted and watched another group of hollows came running up through the gap. Hoisted above their heads, they carried a thick, steel, claw that looked like it may have been ripped free from some giant's mace. A maddeningly long length of chain trailed behind it, scraping the stone in places where the snow had been trampled away, sparks clawing at the air around it. They hauled the claw to the silver knight, who immediately began fastening it to the tip of a long, metal, shaft. Once adjoined, he nocked the shaft into the greatbow.

"Gods," Solaire muttered. "No man could possibly have the strength to loose such a thing thing... could they?" _Whatever lurks below that thing's silver armor is no man_, a voice reminded him.

The silver knight swept the tip of the shaft across the length of wall, settling it on a point near the corner. Solaire traced its path, and found Henrik - standing tall atop the parapets and loosing arrow after arrow upon the knight and cluster of hollows around him. "_Henrik!_" Solaire shouted, rushing back to the corner. "_Get down!_"

But it was too late.

The silver knight, somehow, some_way_, loosed the massive claw. It ripped through the falling snows, becoming a blurred ball of silver within, dragging the length of tethered chain along behind it. Solaire had made it just near enough to his former squire to see the boy's right shoulder explode as the claw thundered into it, tossed the boy aside with an insane force, and drove into the castle wall behind them with a great, thundering, _crack_. A shower of stone came sailing down around Solaire as the claw buried its way into the wall. The slack of the chain behind it pulled tight.

"_Cleric!_" Solaire shouted, rushing to his fallen squire. "Where is the priestess, Rhea!?" He lowered to a knee and laid his hand on the boy's chest. Henrik's shoulder was no longer where it should have been, only a mangled twist of blood and bone in its place.

A thin man in a robe of dark blue hurried forth from pack. He looked at Henrik, his face filled with an expression of disgust and sympathy, and turned back to Solaire. "S-She's not here. I-I'm the only c-cleric."

"Heal him," Solaire said, as Henrik groaned beneath him.

"You c-can't heal t-_that_!"

"You can ease the pain, though, can't you?"

"I can t-t-try..." The cleric muttered dejectedly.

"Then _try_," Solaire pleaded. He fixed the boy with confident look. "You will live, Henrik. Do you hear me? Stay strong, son. Praise the Sun."

"..._praise the Sun..._" Henrik muttered, his eyes closed to slits, his face frozen in a wince.

Solaire stood, eyed the chain, and traced its path back to the stairs adjoining Anor Londo to the Archives, where the silver knight was ushering the hollows around it near. They scurried forth, some so eager they moved on hands and feet like wild beasts, and began jumping up and taking hold of the chain. When they had a firm grasp of the thing, they swung their legs around its top and began pulling themselves along it, hand-over-hand and upside down. Right towards the castle wall.

"_There!_" Solaire shouted. "_Men! Women! _Fire _THERE!_"

The archers looked to him, then to the path of his finger, where the first hollow was making its way quickly towards the halfway point between the army and the wall.

"What in Izalith are they _doing_!?" A young man cried.

"Coming to cut yer balls off boy," an older man answered. "So listen to the Knight Solaire and _FIRE!_"

The young man did, and so did the rest of them. An arrow took the foul thing in the decaying flesh of its stomach. Taken unaware by the blow, its grip came loose, but only for a moment. The hollow's legs swung out below it, but the creature's hands held tight. Another arrow took its thigh, and a final one ripped through its throat. The hollow's mouth gaped into a soundless scream and it plummeted down the maddening fall to the streets of Anor Londo below.

By then, however, eight more had taken up the chain at its base and were scurrying forth along it the same as the first.

Solaire pulled cold air into his lungs to shake his nerves free, stepped back from the wall to survey his soldiers, and raised his voice to be heard over their shouting. "_Listen! LISTEN TO ME! _Those of you who scored highest in archery training, stay manned at the parapets. Those of you who did not, bring your quivers to the men around you and come take up arms. The fight is coming to the wall."

He watched a look of dismay come across nearly every one of their faces. The battle had seemed almost like a game to them until then, raining arrows down upon the mindless hollows from a hundred feet away, but now Solaire could see their thoughts had turned to actually _fighting _the things up close, close enough to smell their rotting flesh, close enough to make detail of their hideous faces, close enough to _die_, and it had unnerved them.

"The Sun shines upon all of us my brothers and sisters!" He shouted. "Do not fear these creatures. They are _hollow - _mere _husks_ of the men they once were! _You _are not! You are alive and you are trained and you are _warriors _and you will _NOT fall to these creatures here today!_"

"_Aye!_" One man shouted. Some others joined in, but the youngest of them would not have their fears removed so easily.

Solaire made the rounds as the lesser archers submitted their quivers to those who needed them, and made sure to clasp the young ones on the shoulders and offer encouraging words. He led the group down the walkway to the castle's corner, where the taught chain hung ominously overhead. He eyed the claw, of which only the very end was visible; the rest was buried deep within the wall. _We could spend the next five minutes trying to pry that thing loose, _he thought. _And by the _sixth_ minute, we'd still be working, and the hollow upon us._

"_Arms_!" He shouted, pointing to the smattering of iron swords and bucklers, spears and wooden shields, clubs and daggers, that lay in brackets beside the wall. The men and women moved forth quickly to take up their preferred weapon of choice. As they picked through the pile, the young fellow he'd sent to warn of the scouting party earlier came barreling around the corner of the guard tower.

"Knight Solaire!" He greeted, standing at attention and catching his breath.

"What has happened inside? Have the scouts been dealt with? Do you need aid?"

The young man frantically shook his head. "No, Sir. _No_! The _witch_ was there! The witch- she burned 'em all up! Destroyed the lift too! No more are comin' up in through the tunnels, I can tell you that much!"

"Witch? You mean Quelana?"

"Aye! She threw fire and lava from her hand and burned them all back to Izalith! She's on _our _side!"

_And thank the Sun for that, _Solaire thought, a hint of a genuine smile coming to his face for the first time in a very long time. Behind the young man, a fresh group of men and women came pouring out to the wall from the guard tower. They glanced around, wide-eyed, at the archers and the chain protruding from the castle, but they did not shriek and they did not run.

"Witch sent 'em here," the young man went on. "Told 'em to follow your command."

He looked to the group, thankful again for Quelana's assistance, and nodded. "Do any of you have combat experience or weapon training?"

A few stepped forth, the rest remained silent and wary.

"Alright," Solaire began. "Take up a blade if you can wield it and join us below that chain. Those of you who can't, stay to the rear and provide aid to those who call for it. Bring swords to the hands of those who lose their own, arrows that may fall astray back to their owners. Drag the wounded to safety should they fall. Understood?"

"_Solaire!_" Winnie shouted.

Solaire spun to the castle corner. A hollow had made it to the parapets and was twisting its body around to clamber up between them. It had made it nearly there when an arrow buried into the creature's temple, rocked its head back on its shoulders, and send the thing tumbling beneath the outer rim of the wall.

"_To arms!_" He wailed, pulled a sword and shield free from the bracket, and sprinted forth. A rumble of warcries thundered behind him, the men and women trailing at his heels. They crossed to the chain just as the next hollow was worming his way between the parapets. Solaire called for the archers there to clear out. The hollow tumbled through the gap of the parapets, scrambled to his feet, and eyed the fresh-skinned men and women around it, opening its mouth wide and hissing a primitive threat as it pulled its sword from its sheath.

Solaire stepped forward and the hollow's head snapped to his own. The thing's red eyes burned with a profound hatred. It lunged forward, the tip of its sword raised high above it, the blade catching the soft orange glow of dusk's dying light. Solaire caught the attack in a parry with his shield, tossed it aside, and let the hollow's own momentum carry the creature into his counter strike. His sword slid deep into the soldier's stomach as it groaned and slumped forth onto the blade. Solaire lifted his leg, planted his boot on the thing's stomach, and kicked. It came free of the sword and fell to the wall's stone floor, dead.

By the time it had, however, two more had appeared at the parapets.

Solaire lifted his blade and moved forward to strike-

-but four men came rushing around his sides and attacked the hollows instead, shouting and cheering and raining strike after strike upon the decaying soldiers before them until the things were littered with gashes and wounds. They hollows fell. The men cheered.

A _crack _boomed from further down the wall, sending every one of them ducking as if an explosion had occurred. Solaire spun on the noise and found, with a sense of dread stealing across him, a _second _claw had been fired and was nestled into the stone corner of the castle at the opposite side; a lengthy, tight, chain running away from it just as the first had. He looked to the crowd of hollows marching forth along the path from Anor Londo and spotted the silver knight, who'd moved forward himself and unleashed the second chain. At its base, the soldiers were already leaping to climb along it.

Solaire turned back to the men and found four hollows, one, seemingly, for each of them, had made their way up the chain and through the parapets. The men were still jabbing and swinging, but without the ability to outnumber their foes as they had before, the hollows could block and parry and strike themselves. They were forcing the men back on their heels, clearing room for the dozen hollows still clinging to the chain behind them to crawl forth.

"Pull Henrik to the guard tower!" Solaire commanded the cleric knelt at his squire's side. The cleric's eyes had been transfixed on the approaching hollows, and Solaire's voice seemed to snap him from whatever daze had befallen his mind. He nodded, took hold of Henrik by the ankles, and dragged the boy back. Solaire moved beside the crowd and shouted, "There is a second force coming up that chain!" He pointed down the length of the wall. "The rest of you go and defend it! Go! _Now!_"

They rushed off without protest, and Solaire moved forward to help the four men defend their corner. One man backstepped into him. The knight moved him aside just in time to catch a downward strike from the hollow he faced atop his shield. Solaire jabbed to give himself some breathing room. The hollow side-stepped the attack instead of retreating, however, and Solaire used the opportunity to press his assault with a flurry of quick strikes. The hollow's shield caught the brunt of them, but the thing's stamina faltered on the last blow and Solaire drove a thrust into its chest.

Two more tumbled through the parapets and rushed him. Solaire swept his sword in a long arc to give halt to their attack. The hollows leapt back, hissing and beating their weapons against their shields. Solaire feigned a strike to the one on his left, and when the creature moved to block, he shifted the attack right and caught the arm of the unaware hollow beside him. The first hollow lifted his blade above his head to attack Solaire as the knight pulled his sword loose. He lifted his shield just in time to catch the blow and drove his sword up and into the bottom of the creature's chin. The tip of the blade exploded from the top of its decaying skull, the creature's eyes rolled back, and it slumped over dead. Solaire spun on the second hollow, but it had already been dealt with by the man he'd helped earlier.

Afforded a moment of brief respite, he glanced to the other side of the wall and saw the first of the hollows were just then reaching it, though a barrage of arrows flew from the archers and took a few unaware in the side, felling them to the forest below.

In his periphery, the red eyes of a climbing hollow came into view. Solaire spun and drove his blade between the thing's eyes just as it was ready to pull through the parapets. He ripped the sword loose and watched as the hollow plummeted. To his side, the men had whittled the three other hollows down to just one, and the four of them had it surrounded. One man feigned, another repeated the fake attack, and the third took the back of the creature's head with a blunted mace. They cheered as it fell to its death.

More came.

The parapets grew choked with soldiers as a hollow leaped over Solaire, leading him away and clearing room for the others to come. Solaire realized the plan, but too late, and by the time he looked back, a half-dozen had clambered to the wall and taken up a defensive stance. They pulled spears free from sheaths and marched forth in phalanx formation, jabbing out over the tops of their shields. His men, untrained for such a thing, began falling back. The hollow he'd been facing struck a poor blow at Solaire's head. The knight pulled back, tossed his shield aside to take up his sword in both hands, and slashed the thing near clean in two before turning and rushing back to aid his men facing the phalanx formation.

The hollows gave up on their pursuit when enough room had cleared behind them for their brethren to begin flooding out onto the castle wall, filling it with the stench of the dead. The spear soldiers held a tight line as more and more hollow came. Solaire rushed to the edge of the phalanx, and was greeted with a flurry of spear jabs over the tops of shields. He leaped back on his heels but could not spot a way to penetrate the wall of soldiers.

More came.

_The wall is lost, _a voice spoke in his head before he could silence it. He shook the hopeless notion away and approached the phalanx again. They jabbed and jabbed but would not break formation, and the men at his side could find no way around them. The area behind the phalanx was now so choked with soldiers, they were packed shoulder-to-shoulder, red eyes peering out from behind the spearmen hungrily.

"My friend," a voice rumbled over his shoulder.

Solaire turned-

-and caught his Sunlight Straight Sword as it sailed towards him.

Black Iron Tarkus ducked beneath the arched passage of the guard tower, fully adorned in his armor, a massive greatsword clutched tightly at the hilt between his meaty fists. He bowed to Solaire and a hearty laugh rumbled out from beneath the helm. "Let us spill the blood of the wicked on this day together, my friend. Praise that good Sun!"

Without waiting for reply, Tarkus bellowed a warcry as loud as any Solaire had ever heard and sprinted forward, his massive black armor moving with surprising deftness, his sword wrenched back over his shoulder like a club.

The phalanx formation held their ground, bracing for impact as the massive man rushed upon them. Tarkus shouted, twisted his body to build momentum, and unleashed a thunderous sweep of his greatsword that started low and ended high and somewhere in the middle of it all - the phalanx was busted apart.

The spearmen rocked back on their heels, their shields coming loose at the impact of Tarkus' strike, and the big man did not allow them time to recover. Solaire joined to press the attack, and soon enough the four other men followed behind. His Sunlight Straight Sword back in his hand and his friend at his side, Solaire came alive with a burst of energy, cutting and swiping and jabbing and feigning as the hollows, backed into a corner with no room to maneuver, could only try in desperate attempt to stop him. Tarkus' giant sword came barreling into the center of their numbers, squashing a line of them flat to the ground.

When the brunt of the task was done, only a few swordsman remained with their backs to the parapets and their red eyes darting around in desperate hope to block the next blow.

The next blow, unfortunately for them, was another great sweep of Tarkus' sword, and it came with such force, it took two of the creature's head clean from their shoulders and a third was smacked so hard with the tail end of the strike, it tumbled out over the parapets and a roar from the creature was lost in the long, long, fall to the other side.

"_Ha_!" Tarkus cheered, beating a hand against his plated chest. "Let them come!" He stepped to the edge of the wall and cupped his hand around his mouth. "_You hear that! Come! Come and die like the cowardly soldiers before you!_"

Solaire looked to the other end of the castle. The men there were facing a far smaller force, and were holding their own quite well. A feeling of hope almost came across him.

Then he saw the winged demon.

Coming soaring up from the streets of the city was a pale demon with wings as white as snow and fangs protruding from its small, bat-like, head and snapping at the air around it aggressively.

"_Archers!_" Solaire called, fixing the beast with a baleful eye. "_Strike this beast approaching down!_"

The archers turned to the Eastern side of the wall, where the bat-winged demon's horned head came rising up over the parapets, the eyes aglow in red just as the hollows had before it. Arrows flew free, clipping at the thing's wings and one sticking its leg. The demon screeched a terrible, shrill, cry, but continued to rise.

_What in Izalith is it doing? _Solaire wondered as it lifted higher and higher above them to the point where the arrows could only sail below its talons. It was then he spotted a brown, leather, bag clutched in the beast's feet.

"What do you think it wants?" Tarkus' deep voice came beside him. "Doesn't look like it wants a fight."

"I don't-" Solaire began, but his eyes had been holding on that queer bag in the demon's talons, and just at that moment, something spilled from within. He watched as it fell back to the city where the winged creature had first risen from. It was small and round and black and then it was gone, vanishing between the shadowed buildings below.

The demon soared higher still, and when it seemingly reached the apex of the climb it was attempting, it moved forth, directly overhead. Solaire watched as it circled the wall, lowering itself and adjusting and-

_Small and round and black, _he thought, and a terrible realization landed in his mind.

"_CLEAR THE WALL!_" He screamed, so sudden and loud, Tarkus himself took a step back.

"Clear the wall?" The big man echoed. "We'll be overrun, Solaire. We-"

"_NOW!_" Solaire wailed, and the archers and swordsman began moving towards him in a slow, confused, shuffle.

He looked skyward.

It was too late.

The bat-winged demon released the bag from within its talons, and the thing came sailing down upon them. Solaire made to shout a warning at those further down the wall who were too near to the bag, but his voice was lost as the sound of the bag's contents-a pack full of black firebombs-erupted upon impact.

Searing red fire scorched the sky as explosions rocked the wall in tight, brief, intervals. Men and women's screams sounded and were lost almost instantly. Something underfoot rumbled, and Solaire felt the whole castle wall lurching, as if recoiling from a mortal wound. A young man came stepping from the billowing black smokes and the lashing flames with his clothing burning upon his body. Another explosion _boomed_, and the parapets near the impact burst loose from their holdings, leaving a massive chasm along the wall's edge.

Somewhere amidst the chaos, a squad of hollows had climbed the chain and spilled onto the wall. Solaire turned to them and caught a blow atop his shield. Somewhere behind him, a woman was screaming, though whether it was for her own suffering or someone's else's, the knight could not say.

The sun had fallen beneath the mountains to the West, bringing night upon the castle as the firebombs' flames burned endlessly all around them, casting wild, dancing, shadows now upon what was left of the wall.

Solaire's eyes flicked to the city as he cut his way free from a pack of hollows. There, rising up from the torch-bearing soldiers all around them, a half-dozen more winged-demons were approaching.

Clutched in their talons were bags; full and brimming to the top with more death and destruction and pain than Solaire could possibly imagine.

With no other option however: he fought on.


	32. Chapter 32

Lautrec pressed himself flat to the shadowed edge of the Great Hall's rear passageway and leaned out just enough to survey the chaos housed within. The castle had come alive in the last few minutes with the screams and wailing of the frightened, the shouts and warcries of the brave, and the rumblings of some faraway explosions from the upper levels whose origins Lautrec could not even begin to guess at. The Great Hall reflected the sounds well. Men and women were scrambling from place to place, snatching up what remained of the food and drink, children clinging dearly to the women's skirts, tears raining from their eyes. A squad of spear-wielding soldiers marched through the front, plucking shields from a bracket and disappearing beneath a side passage, heading towards those faint and distant explosions with steely looks upon their bearded faces. Another group came rushing _out _of the path a moment later carrying a man with a blood-soaked and mangled shoulder between them atop a greatshield, using the thing as a makeshift stretcher. They had just vanished through another doorway when the hulking figure of a crystal golem lumbered past, its metallic blue body catching the glow of the hall's torches as it walked right by unaware. The men and women watched it pass with baited breaths and collapsed with relief when the thing did not notice them. One child began screaming until one of the woman shook the boy so hard his head rocked against his shoulder. He took his thumb in his mouth and glared at her, but did not cry any further.

"This is my fault..."

Lautrec glanced to Abby beside him. The half of her face that was not hidden in shadow was pale and wide-eyed and lined with stress. She turned, fixing him with a blank stare, tears swelling in the corners of her once pretty blue eyes. "_I _brought this upon them. This... this _death_. It's my fault, Lautrec. My fault..."

She watched him, perhaps looking for some reassuring words in return. He had none to offer, however, and so, turned away from her to peer back into the Great Hall. The area was clearing out, the people scooping up the last of the bread and wobbling forth, loafs spilling from the top of their arms. They rounded up the children and started making their way towards the back of the hall: right towards the passage Lautrec stood beneath.

He pulled himself quickly out of sight, stepped before Abby, and pressed her to the wall between his arms. She began to open her mouth and his hand clamped over it. A moment later, the lot of them came scrambling through, the men silent and wary, the women scolding the children at the hems of their skirts, and the children themselves wiping tears and snot from their dirty little faces as they trailed eagerly behind. When they had passed the shadowed corner, Lautrec released Abby and moved back to the doorway.

"Why did we hide from them?" Abby whispered.

"Because if we didn't they'd want something," he told her. "_Everyone_ wants something. Learn that sooner rather than later, girl, and you'll live a lot longer."

"But it's _my _fault this has happened to them, Lautrec! I _owe _them my aid!"

"_Your _aid?" Lautrec questioned, watching as another crystal golem lumbered past the front of the Great Hall, its tree-trunk legs pounding the stone underfoot. "You don't have any aid to give. It's _me _they'd come begging to for protection or some mission to go retrieve a friend or family member. It's _me _who they'd set their hatred upon when I refused them." He could feel Abby's eyes boring into him. He glanced to her and sighed. "Don't give me that look. I told you a long time ago that this is no tale from one of your childhood stories and I'm not some heroic knight looking to save these people. _I'm _looking to live. Nothing more."

"You saved _me_..." she said quietly.

"I killed Logan," Lautrec corrected her. "You happened to be saved in the process." _His body was gone though, _his thoughts reminded him. _Whether it be by some spell or miracle or trick: the sorcerer is not dead. Not yet._

Abby shook her head. "I don't believe you. You came to rescue me. I know you did. You stopped Logan from hurting me. You _are _a hero, Lautrec, even if you don't want to be."

He frowned. "Believe what you want, girl, but when the moment comes and your little fantasy is shattered, don't say I didn't warn you." He returned his gaze to the Great Hall. It was completely emptied then, and a long enough time had passed since he'd seen a golem that he figured the monsters had moved on. "Can you walk?"

"Yes," Abby told him. "And I just figured out how I'm going to prove that you're a hero. _My _hero."

"Good for you. Let's go." He grabbed her wrist and turned to the passage.

"You're not going to kill Anastacia," Abby said, halting his footsteps in place. "Because I'm going to stop you."

He turned to her, and his expression must have been dark because the little smile that had crept up Abby's face sunk immediately. "_Stop _me?" He snapped. _Leave her, _he thought. _Leave the mad girl to the hollows and be done with her. If Ben still lives, there is hope yet for a Lordran without her._

"Yes," Abby went on, though his look had stolen the confidence from her voice. "I'm going to set you free from your sister and then you can be _mine_. Be my knight. My hero."

She winced and he realized his grip on her wrist had tightened considerably. He loosened it, but only a bit. "Don't ever speak of Anastacia again. Do you understand me?"

Her eyes flicked between his fearfully. "Yes. I- I'm sorry."

_Leave her, _his thoughts pleaded once more. His hand and feet betrayed his mind, though, and he found himself dragging her along behind him as he slipped around the passage and into the Great Hall.

They moved through at a brisk pace, Abby's bare feet slapping against the stone behind him as he pulled at her wrist. A group of men passed outside the front entrance, heading in the direction the golems had earlier, but the two of them went unnoticed, and so they moved on. Lautrec led her around the end of a longtable, sidling past the spilled remains of some forlorn meal of meat and vegetables and into the side passage he'd spied the men carrying the wounded earlier. A long hall of ensconced torches and crimson carpeting awaited, at the end of which was a wooden door swung open on its hinges. Lautrec pulled Abby beside it, took hold of her shoulders, and moved her beside the wall there.

"Don't move and don't speak to anyone. If someone comes, shout for me. Understand?"

Abby's eye widened apprehensively, but she nodded her acquiescence all the same. "What are you going to do?"

He ignored her question, pulled his shotels free from their sheaths, and slipped around the corner of the doorway.

There were six of them: one soldier with a spear beside the door, watching the others; two men whose swords resting in their hilts at the back of the room; one tall, older, man with a dusting of gray hair and a mace in hand; and the last of them was a wounded boy lying on the greatshield, and a cleric in blue robes kneeling beside him.

It was the spearman who saw him first. The man made to lift his weapon, but Lautrec caught the tip resting against the ground beneath one foot and drove the heel of his other into the middle of the shaft. The spear splintered in half, useless, and Lautrec darted forward to the two swordsmen at the rear of the room. The cracking of the spear had caught their attention, and both their weapons were drawn by the time he reached them. The first yelped and took a swing at him. Lautrec caught the blade in the curve of his shotel, twisted so the man's wrist bent unnaturally, and flung the weapon aside. The second man threw a jab at him. Lautrec shifted sideways, grabbed his attacker's wrist, and pulled him into his body. He spun the man, raised his shotel to his neck, and twisted so they were facing the other five.

"What in _Izalith _are you _doing_!" The grey-haired man snapped, stepping forth with his mace gripped in a two-handed approach. "Who _are _you! What do you want!?"

"Answers," Lautrec told him calmly, pressing his blade a bit deeper into the squirming man's throat between his arms. "If you value this man's life you'll give them to me: quick, clear, and true."

"He broke my spear..." the spearman muttered, lifting the half of his weapon that still remained in his hand and shaking it dejectedly.

Grey-hair ignored him. "Alright. Ask your bloody questions then! Don't you kill that man! There's a damned _war _raging out there and you-"

"Shut up," Lautrec snapped.

The man's mouth hung open incredulously, but he had, in fact, shut up.

"I need to know where Anastacia of Astora is."

"The _firekeeper_?"

"That's right."

A clueless look made the rounds on the men's faces, each looking to the next for an answer.

Lautrec felt his blood heat, the skin of his arm itch, his breath grow heavy. He lifted the blade higher into his captive's neck, prompting a quiet whimper from the man. "Someone better have an answer if you don't want this man's blood on your hands."

Grey-hair's face scrunched up indignantly. "We don't _know_ you cruel bastard! Can't you see that? Let him go and-"

"Logan took her," the soft, shaky, voice of the wounded boy croaked from the floor.

Lautrec narrowed his eyes on the young man. "Took here _where_, boy?"

The kid coughed, wincing and grabbing for his wounded shoulder. The cleric stopped him and wrestled it away, bringing a talisman to his elbow and whispering some miracle instead. A soft, yellow, light bathed the boy's arm, settling him a bit. "I don't know," he groaned. "He sent Chester after her to... bring her to him. That's... all I know." He coughed. "I swear."

Lautrec held the boy's eyes, testing his honesty. When he saw he would get no further answer he sighed and looked back to the man with gray hair. "Alright. What's happening on the wall?"

"_War _is what's happening!" The man snapped, shoving a finger back in the direction they'd come. "And you're wasting my ti-"

"How many?"

The man shook his head, a blank expression befalling his face. "More than you could imagine. Hundreds. _Tens _of hundreds. It is hard to say. Their numbers stretch from the wall back to Anor Londo itself."

_Then the girl isn't as mad as they all believed, _Lautrec thought. _Hundreds of hollows... Gods help us. _"Who has command on the wall?"

"The Knight Solaire."

"And how does he fare?"

"Poorly," the man told him, his look darkening. "They rain black firebombs on us from the skies with their wretched bat-winged demons. They've loosed great chains upon the walls that the hollows are using to carry themselves near. The Sun Warrior is holding his ground with Tarkus and the few trained men that remain to us, but... it is a lost cause."

Lautrec frowned. "Then what are they still _doing _up there?"

"Buying _us _time!" The man growled. "Which is why I don't have anymore to stand here wasting with _you_! Now unhand him and-"

"What is Solaire buying you time _for_?" Lautrec interrupted, fixing the man with a shrewd look.

Grey-hair's eyes flicked to his compatriots; their own shying away immediately. When the man looked back to him, his jaw and brow were set in stoic lines. "We're to gather what firebombs remain to us... and then we're to blow the entrances leading up to the wall. It is lost. The only way to buy more time now is to seal off our exits. Solaire and the rest... they have chosen to forfeit their lives so that the rest of may keep our own. We will collapse the entrances."

"You'll be _trapped_."

"We'll be _alive_," the man said. "And for now, that's all we can hope for."

He opened his mouth to tell the man what a foolish plan they had come up with, when movement in his periphery caught his attention. He turned to see Abby walking into the room with her hands raised. "Wait!" She pleaded. "Wait you don't have to do this!"

"Abby, get _back_!" Lautrec snapped.

But the grey-haired man had already taken hold of her. He wrapped her body up in his thick arm and pulled her to him, setting his mace at the side of her head. "P-Please!" Abby pleaded, though she was not struggling against the man who'd taken her captive. "I know what they want! I can stop this all! I can stop anymore people from dying! You don't have to trap the Knight Solaire! _Please_!"

"Silence, girl," the man barked. His eyes moved from her to Lautrec. "Who _are _you and why are you together with Logan's mad princess?"

"Mad? She's the _Chosen_, Sir," the spearman whispered, staring at Abby and rubbing his fingers against his chin.

"She's _mad _is what she is," he growled. "Everyone knows it. She strummed up false hope upon us all and look what it's brought us? She's a ruse. Just another of Logan's tricks." He turned back to Lautrec. "Now you answer _me_, young man. Who are you? What is your name?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm here for Anastacia, nothing more," Lautrec explained. "I don't care about you or Solaire or this war for that matter. However, the girl _is _coming with me. If you harm her... the five of you will die here in this room."

"_Please_!" Abby shouted. "_No_ one has to die! I'll go to them! I will! I'll stop this!"

"_Silence_!" The man barked again, shaking her in his arm til she quieted down.

Lautrec's fingers itched, the blood in his chest heating. "Don't do that again," he told the man as calmly as his anger would allow.

"You have to listen to me!" Abby went on. "I'm not mad! I promise you! If I go to the hollows they will stop! I-"

"_Lies_!" The man snapped. "You and Logan and Chester, you're all _liars_! Now the good men of this castle are dying all around me and yet _you _treacherous lotlive on!"

"You're hurting me," Abby said, squirming against his arm.

"Am I? But can you truly feel pain? Aren't you supposed to be the _Chosen_!? Aren't you supposed to be our _savior_!? _HUH!? AREN'T YOU!?_" The man's face twisted with rage and he raised his mace.

Lautrec shoved his captive to the floor, wrenched his arm back, and hurled his shotel across the room. It spun, cutting through the air, and lodged itself in the side of grey-hair's neck. Blood spurt across the wall beside him, his mouth fell agape, and his eyes turned on Lautrec's with wide incredulity. He choked, blinked, and slumped to the ground dead.

Lautrec crossed the room, shoved Abby into the corner, and spun back to bring up his shotel in defense.

The others hadn't moved. They only stared blankly at their fall soldier as the blood left his neck in great red rivers. Lautrec knelt and pulled the weapon free.

"He killed Edd," one of the swordsman muttered.

"Edd was going to kill the Chosen," the spearman pointed out. "I'd rather see _him _dead than _her_. She's... well, she's the _Chosen_."

Lautrec wiped the man's blood away from his shotel, dragging the blade along his breeches. He lifted the weapons and faced each of the men in turn. "If you blow the entrances, you're all fools."

Abby stepped to his side and took hold of his arm. She glanced upon the old man's body he'd killed and grimaced before turning quickly away and closing her eyes. "Solaire must live."

He faced her and frowned. "What?"

"I can't tell you why, Lautrec, but Solaire must live. He's... important," Abby explained, swiping a tear from her cheek. "You have to save him." He began to protest, but she pressed on, cutting him short. "I know I've seemed mad. Everyone says so. I haven't slept in a long time. It's made me... act strangely at times. I understand that. But I've also been _right _about things, haven't I? I said the hollows would come and they did. I'm not crazy, Lautrec. Please believe me. No one else will."

He held her eyes; those deep, blue, pits that housed a myriad of mystery and wonder. She _had _been right. Time after time, as mad as she seemed, she'd been right. It was _her _who calmed the Taurus Demon at the Firelink Shrine when they all had thought it would rip her into bits. It was _her _who had warned of the hollow army gathering in the city, and it had been _her _who knew exactly when they were marching. All around him was death and insanity and confusion and _wrongness_, and yet here before him stood the one thing in Lordran that seemed _right. _

"...alright, girl," he told her. "I believe you."

She smiled.

"Don't think that means I'm going to start taking your orders," Lautrec went on, stealing some of the hope from her expression.

"We _are _sealing the entrances," the spearman said. "It wasn't Edd's order. It was Solaire's himself."

"Please, Lautrec," Abby pleaded, clasping her hands together at his chest. "Please don't let him die."

_Should have left her_, he thought as her widened eyes held his own, silently begging. He turned to the spearman. "Give me five minutes before you set off the bombs."

The soldiers shared uncertain looks. The spearman shrugged. "Five minutes? ...yeah. Alright. I can do that." He faced Abby. "I believe in the Chosen. Well... not much else _to _believe in these days, I suppose, but... it's somethin'."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"We have to move _now_ though," he told her.

"Then move," Lautrec said.

They did.

Shouting and the clashing of metal on metal could be heard before they'd even made it halfway to the guard tower. At the bottom, where an arched passage gave way to a spiraling set of stone steps that twisted up to the Archives' wall, Lautrec could smell the death lingering from within. Something overhead rumbled so deeply, the walls themselves shook; a torch spilling loose from its sconce and nearly taking the carpet in flame before one of the swordsman snatched it up. A scream echoed down the stairs; man or woman, Lautrec did not know. The sound of excruciating pain was genderless.

"Five minutes," the spearman reminded him, stepping to the edge of the passage and shaking a group of brown firebombs to the floor. "Then we light these and blow the damned thing shut. Can only _hope _the explosion is enough to bring the stone down around it."

"If it isn't?" Lautrec asked.

He shrugged. "Then when the hollow overtake the soldiers up top, they flood into the castle itself and we all die."

"You can still give me to them," Abby said. "I... I'm not afraid."

Lautrec looked to her. "You're shaking," he pointed out. "And you forget, girl, that the hollow have _always _held contempt for man. Even if it _is _you they came for, there's no guarantee they'll stop once they obtain you. They're too close to victory now. They can likely smell our flesh, hunger to rip it from our bones. They won't stop. Not until every man and woman in this castle breaths their last breath."

The soldiers at his side grimaced as if he'd fed poison to their thoughts. Abby stared at the ground near her feet, a pensive look lining her face. Somewhere above, another scream sounded.

Lautrec pulled his shotels free. "Five minutes. I'll be back." He waited til Abby raised her head and looked at him. "You've been right before. You better be right now. And this time _don't _go anywhere. Understand me?"

She nodded.

"You," he told the spearman. "She's the Chosen. You said it yourself. Guard her with your life."

"You don't tell us what to do!" One of the swordsman snapped. "You _killed _Edd!"

"And I'll kill you as well if harm should befall her."

"...bastard knight," the man muttered, but there was fear in his face, and Lautrec knew he'd gotten the message.

Without further hesitation, he shouldered around the passageway and began the long climb to the wall. With every step he ascended, the smell of smoke and death grew more pungent, the cold of the outside layered a thick sheet of ice on his bare arms and face, the screaming and shouts and clashing of metal rose up a violent, maddening, crescendo, and then-

-he was there. The exit was so choked with black smoke, he had to bury his face in the pit of his elbow as he raised the other arm to shield the way forward and plunge outside. Swords smacked together in his ear, and when his vision cleared of the smoke, he saw fires, great and sweeping fires, that had littered the wall in red and orange clusters, black smoke billowing into the dark night above so thickly, they took on the form of massive, ebony, knights towering overhead. Corpses, both man and hollow, were sprawled out in the snows everywhere he looked, their blood painting the white a deep crimson. Some of their limbs were detached, lying useless beside their owner's body. At the edge of the wall, those who had not yet fallen were locked in combat; swords and shields battering against the hollows as the decaying creatures crawled over parapets like streams of brown sewer water spilling to the wall.

He stepped forward, a fire blazing so furiously to his right, he could feel the heat on his cheek, threatening to singe the hairs there. He marched past it, squinting in the smoke, nearly tripping on the crawling figure of a hollow with no bottom half. His eyes swept the length of the wall, looking for Solaire, but found the soldiers damn near indistinguishable from one another beneath the black night sky, even _with _the fires burning around them.

A man and hollow were locked in a sword fight at the wall as he trudged through the snows past them, but the hollow had taken its opponent unaware with a barrage of strikes, and he saw the soldier's stomach explode in a geyser of blood as the creature planted its blade in his belly. The thing hissed and its red eyes darted wildly around for the next thing to kill. They landed on Lautrec. It moved forward, taking its blade up in both hands and rushing to drive it down upon him. Lautrec threw his shotel the short gap between them before the creature could cross it. It stuck the thing in the chest, dropping it to its knees. He moved before the hollow, took hold of the stuck shotel, and swung his other around at the thing's neck. Its head slid free from its body as the blade sliced through. He wrestled his weapon free and marched on.

Behind him, one of the explosions he'd heard from below thundered in his ear and shook the ground beneath his feet. A flash of fire came up over his shoulder, briefly painting the scene before him in its light. He hadn't realized just how many hollows there were until that moment. They stretched all the way back to the end of the wall shoulder-to-shoulder, outnumbering the men by at least five to one. The situation was as hopeless as the soldiers below had told him, and Lautrec suddenly found himself eager to find the damned Warrior of the Sun and be done with it. He kicked snows from his path and trudged forth as another explosion rumbled back the way he'd come and a chorus of screams filled the night air.

He watched as a pack of hollows swarmed a sole man, surrounded him, and leaped atop him from all sides, hacking away with axes and clubs. Further down the wall, a woman at the parapets was wrestling with a hollow. The creature brought the hilt of its dagger down on her wrist and the woman screamed and dropped her shield. The hollow took hold of her and flung her back through the parapets where her screaming faded to silence as she fell. Another group of hollows overwhelmed a pair of archers who'd taken refuge behind an empty bracket, cutting them down as they scrambled for their daggers. At the corner of the wall, something white and taloned flashed by overhead screeching, and a moment later, the night filled with the sounds of another cluster of explosions. The searing flames ripped at the skies around it as the black firebombs went off. Lautrec raised a hand to shield his eyes, cut down a hollow attempting to charge him amidst the chaos, and moved forward again.

"_The wall is lost! To Izalith with this madness! RETREAT!_" A young man screamed and came barreling past him, flinging his weapon to the snows.

"_No! Hold your ground!_" A voice commanded.

Lautrec followed it around a curve in the wall and found the owner. The Knight Solaire was locked in combat with a half-dozen hollows around him. They were slashing and cutting, but the man had his shield up to his chest, and the blows he did not catch with it, he stepped back and to the side to avoid. One tried a stab, but Solaire swatted the attack aside and countered with a stab of his own. Three more tried pouncing. The knight ripped his sword loose from the fallen hollow and leaped back on his heels to dodge the trio. Lautrec moved forward, his fists tightening around the hilts of his shotels. Two of the creatures were close enough for him to lunge and bury his curves blades into the back of their necks. One turned to spin at the commotion and Solaire caught him with a jab. The other three hissed and broke apart to deal with them, but both Lautrec and, apparently, Solaire had the same idea. They pressed forth, sandwiching the hollows, and hacked them down in a flurry of swipes.

When the work was done, the hollows lying at their feet in clumps of rotten flesh, Solaire fixed him with a curious look. "You have my thanks, friend!" He shouted over the sounds of chaos. His eyes moved to Lautrec's weapons and held upon them. He was quiet a moment, then said, "You're him, aren't you? You're the Knight of Carim? Lautrec?"

"I'm here to bring you inside," Lautrec shouted.

Solaire shook his head. "No, friend. My place is here! The wall must hold until the passages are closed. The wall-"

"-is _lost_!" Lautrec yelled as another explosion boomed around the bend. "Don't be a fool, Sun Knight. To stay here is to die!"

"And to die in _combat_ is a good death!"

"A long life is better than a good death!" Lautrec snapped. "Abby sent me! Your Chosen! She... she _commands _you to retreat!"

"..._Abby_?" Solaire echoed, his eyes drifting over Lautrec's shoulder. "But..."

"_Come on!_" Lautrec shouted. "_They're going to blow the entrance!_"

Solaire looked to his men fighting around them. His eyes swept the length of the wall back and forth, and when they returned to Lautrec, there was a steely determination burning within. "No, friend. I'm sorry. Tell the girl she has my apologies. My place is here."

_There are few things less stubborn than a knight with his honor intact, _Lautrec thought, the distant words of some long lost friend. _He's important, _Abby's voice came next. _Important. _

"_Hollow!_" Lautrec shouted, pointing his shotel to the knight's rear flank.

Solaire raised his sword and spun-

-and Lautrec stepped forth, took his shotel in both hands, and drove the hilt into the back of the man's head. Solaire stumbled to one knee, but remained conscious, so Lautrec repeated the attack. The second time, Solaire fell.

He was positioning himself at the knight's feet, ready to take him by the ankles and drag him back to the guard tower when a booming voice rumbled over his shoulder, "_Hey! What happened!_"

Lautrec turned to see the biggest man he'd ever looked upon rushing their way. His hands instinctively went for their weapon, but he made them halt. _He knows nothing, _he thought.

"Gods, has Solaire fallen!?" The man asked from beneath the black iron casing of his helm, and his voice carried a surprising tenderness to it.

"Only unconscious!" Lautrec told him. "A hollow bashed his head off the wall! He needs to be moved inside! Can you carry him!?"

"Aye," the man said, bending to scoop Solaire over his shoulder. When he'd managed, he spun on Lautrec and narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "Who are you? I don't remember seeing you?"

"Lost my helm," Lautrec told him. "I usually keep it on."

The big man nodded, accepting the answer with some hesitation.

"The entrance has not yet been destroyed! Come!" Lautrec commanded.

The two moved out at a sprint-Lautrec noting the impressive deftness of the big man _carrying _the knight on his shoulder-and rounded the corner back to the main sect of wall. The war raged on as furious as ever, the hollows numbers growing around them by the second. Fresh fires spit venomous clouds of black smoke into wild tangles that the two of them had to sidle around. Twice, a group of hollows broke off from the men they were entangled in combat with, but both times Lautrec's shotels cut them down before they could halt their progress. He led them all the way back to the guard tower, watching as the big man had to duck his head to clear the arch, and down the spiral of stairs to-

-a pile of rubble and nothing more.

"No good bastards..." Lautrec muttered, kicking at a stone underfoot. "They blew the entrance already. _Damn _those cowards!"

"The _second_ guard tower then!" The man in black armor's voice boomed.

"Step aside," Lautrec told him, looking past his shoulder.

"Huh?"

"Step aside _now_."

The man did. Lautrec climbed thee stairs, met the pair of hollows who'd been sneaking up behind them, and hacked them apart with his shotels. When the work was done, he sheathed and spun on the man. "Can you still carry him?"

"I can carry _two _of him if need be. Don't you worry about me. Just keep cutting them hollows down."

Lautrec nodded, turned, and sprinted back up the stairs.

They spilled out to the wall just as a chorus of screams came wailing from the outer rim. Lautrec watched as a knight even _larger _than the man carrying Solaire came crawling up from the parapets. As the flames lashed around it, he saw it was one of Anor Londo's silver knights, and the thing stood at least seven feet tall, towering above the men around it. It got its footing and swung its sword, just as silver and just as big, in a wide sweep, cutting down two men in a flash.

"_RETREAT!_" The big man's voice shouted behind him. "_The wall is done! Only the western guard tower remains! Fight your way back inside! FIGHT!_"

Lautrec did just that, cutting down a hollow that charged them with a torch and dagger. He ran forward, cutting them a path beside the wall and down to the guard tower at the far end. All around them, now that the order had been given, the men and women were attempting to do the same, though many were faltering, too hasty in their retreat and too reckless in their defense, and many were falling easily to the hollow. Overhead, a great metal claw thundered into the wall, sending chips of stone raining around them. Lautrec saw a chain had joined the other six or seven chains, creating another bridge for the hollows to close the gap on them.

They made their way to the western tower, where a man and woman stood together, fighting off the hollows that neared and ushering in the men. Their eyes fell to Solaire's limp body and a look of dread filled their faces.

"He lives," the big man explained as he ducked inside. "Let's go!"

Lautrec glanced over his shoulder. The wall was so choked with hollow then, it was as if the floor itself had come alive; the thing's red eyes packed so tightly against one another, they resembled a mass of fireflies floating forth in the night. At their rear, a silver knight lumbered forth, and Lautrec saw a second joining further down between the parapets.

He was turning to head inside when a shout caught his attention. His eyes found a sole soldier amidst the growing horde of hollow, swinging a sword wildly in a two-handed grip. When the soldier shouted and turned to cut down a creature, Lautrec saw it was a woman, a squat and stocky woman with her teeth barred and her eyes wide.

_Fool, _he thought, glancing around at the approaching hollow. She was the last one left besides himself. _Only a fool would stand their ground when the battle is lost. A fool... or a hero. _Lautrec was no fool and he was no hero, and so, he turned and rushed inside.

His feet had fallen only to the first step when the damned woman's voice shouted again, and the sound was so pathetic and desperate and _loud_, he halted, grit his teeth, and took up his shotels.

When he stepped back onto the wall, the idiot was still swinging her weapon around wildly at the approaching hollow.

"_Didn't you hear the order you fool!?" _He shouted. "_Get your ass inside!_"

She turned to him and a hollow lunged, clipping her arm and causing her blade to fall from her hands. She bent to pick it up, but wound up slipping in the snows. A hollow came up beside Lautrec and swung a club for his head. He ducked, caught the creature in the belly with his blade, and ripped its abdomen to shreds. "_Come on!_" He commanded again, flicking his eyes to the fallen women as she scrambled forth on hands and knees. Three hollows rushed the guard tower and Lautrec cut them down in a series of frantic swipes. Five more were coming. Then a sixth joined them. Then a seventh. Then the whole damn wall was flooding down around him.

He reached forward, snatched the woman's pudgy wrist, and yanked her inside. She clambered to her feet and looked at him with a pale, dazed, expression. "Th-thank you."

A moment flashed when her face became Anastacia's and Lautrec nearly wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed the life out of the fool. Then the hollows were clustering the doorway and he snapped out of the daze, laid his hand on her shoulder, and shoved.

The two of them rushed down the stairs, the sounds of hissing and growling and the stench of death so tight at their heels, Lautrec thought they'd be hacked down before they ever reached the inner keep.

"_BLOW IT!_" He heard a voice demanding from below. "_BLOW IT NOW!_"

"_Wait!_" Another voice pleaded.

"_BLOW IT NOW!_"

They blew it.

Lautrec stumbled forth, catching the portly woman in the back as a string of firebombs erupted around the rim of the passageway.

He was aware of pain and a blinding white light and little else.

Sound fled Lordran, leaving him in a smothering blanket of heavy silence.

His eyes opened. Closed. Opened.

His vision was a blur, but he found his eyes could hold open if he focused. There was a man hovering over him, and somewhere from a distant chasm of Lautrec's mind, he recognized it at the spearman from earlier. The man spoke, but the sound was still gone from Lordran, perhaps gone _forever_, and Lautrec could only stare as the lips before him moved in silent formation. He pulled his gaze from the spearman to look around at the gathered men and women and soldiers and-

_Abby, _he tried to say, though it was impossible to know if he'd succeeded or not. _Where's Abby?_

The man moved his lips a lot then, but Lautrec could hear none of the information they were sharing; none until the very end, when he was able to read the man's lips and decipher a single word.

The word was: "Chester"


	33. Chapter 33

He shoved her forward into the room so forcefully, Abby's feet tangled beneath her and she ended up spilling to the floor. Her hands caught the soft carpeting beneath her, but her arms did not carry the strength needed to prevent her cheek and temple from smacking against it; the thin layer of carpet not enough to protect her from the hard stone beneath. A black curtain draped her vision, but when she lifted herself on trembling arms and shook her head, the curtains lifted alongside her. She crawled forward into the bedroom that the two of them had once shared, wrapped her hands around the post at the end of the bed, and pulled herself to her knees.

Chester stormed past her, throwing his crossbow down upon the bed and ripping the closet doors open near its end to dig inside. Abby watched, her eyes flicking between the man who had been her first true kiss and now whom she despised and the weapon lying beside her. It was unloaded, the bolts bundled together in a quiver slung to Chester's hip, but the allure of the thing still held her attention. _If I could, I'd kill you, Chester, _she thought. _And with you, I'd kill the foolish girl who thought she might have loved you once. The girl has to die so the woman can live._

Clothing began falling to the bed beside the weapon: heavy and fur-lined boots; a thick coat with white woolen trimming; dark cloaks; scarves; gloves. Abby watched them rain down upon the mattress beside her as Chester flung them back. When the trail ended, he spun, marched before her and snatched her wrist.

"Get up," he commanded, pulling at her arm. "Get up and dress yourself."

"I can't," she croaked, and it was only half a lie. With little food and less sleep afforded to her the last few days and nights, her strength had all but fled her body. She had walked, _ran _even, with Lautrec, but Lautrec was her knight, and his presence gifted her the _strength_ of a knight.

"Don't be a child," he said, pulling harder still at her arm.

"You're hurting me," she said.

The words, for whatever reason, sparked a quiet fury in Chester's eyes. He grimaced, bent to snatch up her other wrist, and _yanked _her to her feet before tossing her onto the bed. Abby bounced as she fell upon it, thankful there was no layer of stone beneath waiting to pull those dark drapes over her eyes again, and tried scrambling off the other side to flee the man at her feet. He caught her by the ankles, dragged her back, and pinned her in place. For one, terrified, moment, she saw his hand move towards the sheathed dagger at his hip and his face darken. The moment passed, his eyes moved to the clothing beside her, and he began dressing her. The boots were pulled over her bare feet and tightly laced. The coat wrapped her thin frame in its thick embrace, falling all the way to her knees. He tugged the cloak down around her, dark and snug and hooded.

"What are you going to do with me?" She asked as he made final adjustments to her new clothing.

"Save your life," he said, pulling the laces of a boot just a bit tighter to her foot. "Or end it. I suppose that depends on how much you fight me, Abby."

"I hate you," she said before she could stop herself. She immediately hated _herself _for saying it. It was the sort of thing a foolish little girl, not very much unlike the one she'd been when she'd kissed him, would declare; a useless display of emotion. Lautrec would have been disappointed.

Chester only grinned. "Now you do. You might still one day love me. As I love you."

"That's a lie!" She shouted, finding a strength in her anger. "When they took me, those cultist dragon-worshipers, they told me a lot of things and most of them, I knew were untrue, but the one thing I knew above all others to be real... was that you were _sent _to charm me by Logan. You... you _lied _then and you're _lying _now!" _Don't cry, _an inner voice commanded, not entirely unlike Lautrec's. _Only girl's cry._

Chester's dark eyes held her own. "It is true, Abby. Logan set me upon you to win your heart and ensure your allegiance to him."

She had believed it since Quelana-or whatever demon had replaced Quelana-had told her, but hearing Chester say it himself left her feeling as hollow as she'd felt in the Undead Asylum. _Only girl's __cry_.

"However," Chester went on. "For better or for worse, I _did _wind up falling in love with you, Abby. I want you to be mine. If there are only a handful of days left in this cold world of ours, I wish to spend them with you at my side."

She narrowed her eyes on his. "You're a violent and cruel man and I feel nothing but _disgust _for you. _My _heart belongs to another." She thought of Lautrec, the way his arms had felt around her after he'd killed Logan to rescue her. He was a man, a _knight_, and looking upon Chester, she could only see a boy's face; pretty and youthful and foolish. Not unlike her own had once been before the nightmares had come and stolen all three of those qualities from it.

Chester's look darkened. Abby had seen the face before: the last time, he'd made it just before he slapped her. She tried moving back on the bed to distance herself from him, but his hand gripped her at the elbow and pulled. She stumbled to her feet and Chester wasted no time dragging her behind him to the bath chamber.

"I confess my love and you attempt to break my heart?" He snapped, his grip tightening. "You're a little spoiled bitch, you know that Abby?" He yanked at her arm, nearly causing her to lose her footing again, and shoved her against the rim of the tub inside the bath chamber. "If these our are final days, don't think I'll allow you to ruin them for me."

She gripped the edge of the tub, desperately trying to relieve the pressure Chester was applying to squeeze her between him and it. Her mouth opened to plead with him, but Chester swung a bucket of water beneath her, grabbed the back of her head, and plunged her face into it. The liquid within was so icy cold, her eyes shot open, despite the water's attempt to shut them. She screamed but the sound was nothing but a gurgling choke and a stream of bubbles raising up from the corner's of her lips. She thrashed her arms and legs, but she was too weak to break Chester's hold on her, and the fighting was only making her lungs more desperate for air. _He's not going to let me up_, she realized, a panic pounding her heart into a wardrum ten times louder than the one banging outside the Archives' walls. _I'm going to drown in a bucket of water. Only girls cry, though, _she thought, and somehow the mad thought brought her peace. _And I won't cry._

When the world dimmed and the black curtains threatened her vision once again, the bucket came away. She gasped at the air, the lingering water on her lashes and brow keeping her half-blind, and shook her head. There was water in her nose, in her mouth, in her ears, and just as it was beginning to clear, Chester plunged her down into that icy hole once again.

Four times he repeated it. Four times she was pulled free in a panic, given a moment of respite, and plunged back under, and by the last time, she was wishing he would just keep her under and let her misery end. Instead, he grabbed a fistful of what little hair remained to her and yanked her head back to face his own. He wiped water from her eyes and stare coldly into them. "Do you love me yet?"

She coughed, feeling water trickle from the corner of her mouth and down the back of her throat, and as her vision cleared and his face came into focus, she knew telling him the truth was, somehow, another important step in killing off the foolish girl she'd been and birthing the strong woman she'd need to be if she ever hoped to win Lautrec's affection. "No," she told him. "I don't."

Chester squinted, and perhaps if it had not been for the distant rumbling of some explosion taking the wall outside, he would have stuck her back under the water. The sound caught his attention, though, and he sighed impatiently. "Get up," he growled, pulling at her arm.

Abby stumbled behind him, her hair and face and the top of her coat wet and cold, and Chester led her to the room's end, worked the door open to a crack, and peered outside. Distant shouting trailed into the room, but the hall must have appeared empty; Chester swung the door back and pulled her behind him into it.

"Where are you taking me?" She asked as they raced down the hall.

"The Crystal Cave," he answered, not bothering to turn and face her as he rounded a corner.

"But... _why_?" Abby questioned. They'd had to read about the various caverns and mountains of Lordran in school back in Vinheim. The Crystal Cave was a very old, enchanted, place nestled into the same mountain range as the Archives. They said Seath the Scaleless, betrayer of dragons, resided there, kept alive for an eternity by the infamous Primordial Crystal.

"Because the castle is falling," Chester told her as they began the descent of a flight of stairs. "And everyone in it will die before the next nightfall." He glanced back at her. "Of that much, you were right."

"But the Crystal Caves house no exit!" Abby pleaded. "If you take us in there, we'll be trapped!"

"Open your eyes, Abby, we're trapped _now_. The hollows flood around this castle like a great river, and it is only a matter of time before they find some _crack _to begin pouring in through. One way or another, Lordran and all its rotten inhabitants are coming to an end. Logan says as much himself. I intend to extend our demise... so that we may spend the final days of this world in each other's embrace. As lovers."

"_I don't love you_!" She shouted, louder than she'd intended.

He halted so suddenly, she stumbled right into his arms. He caught her and took hold of her chin so her eyes were locked upon his own. "The end of days will put a warmth in your heart for me yet, Abby. It will be hard not do when I am the only thing that remains to you in the dark husk that will be Lordran."

"Lordran isn't ending," she said defiantly. "I won't let it. _Lautrec _won't let it."

The walls rumbled, sending tremors up into the soles of Abby's feet. From the top of the staircase, she could hear men shouting at one another and a child screaming and crying and begging for their mother. A clash of swords rang somewhere further off; the distant echo of battle and death. Chester ignored these sounds, a grin creeping up his face; the face she'd once found so comely. "Oh you poor girl," he cooed. "Is that it? Is that why you deny my love? For _him_? The knight of Carim?" Chester laughed. "Oh, Abby, you've fallen for a man with no heart you foolish thing. I know Lautrec. _Logan _knows Lautrec. He is a man _far_ more broken than I. The only thing he might _love _is the lust for murder... of his poor, sweet, sister."

Abby glared, but offered no reply. It was how Lautrec himself would have responded, and even if her own look was a pale imitation, it had the right effect on Chester: he frowned, held her eyes, but said no more.

At the bottom of the stairs, they came upon the bannister-enclosed walkway of the library's second floor. Here, it was as if the war had already come and stricken its plague upon the room. It was deserted, tables and chairs overturned (likely by the rush of panicked men and woman), books fallen free from their shelves and splayed out on the ground, their white pages lying loose and open like the wounded and exposed stomachs of fallen soldiers. A section of wall down the path had been busted apart, large chunks of stone lying crumbling beside it. From somewhere deeper within the castle, Abby smelled fire and chaos and death, and the thought of men dying for her own foolish mistake not to go to Anor Londo sooner threatened her eyes with tears so strongly, she had to bite down on her lip til it bled to stave them off. _Only girls cry_.

Chester yanked at her arm, and Abby had to take hold of the bannister to keep from falling. He led her down the walkway, around a bend, and to the bottom of a long, twisting, flight of stairs that opened up to the wide chamber of the room below. From the foot of the stairs, Abby could see a balcony looking out over the gardens outside. The sky was as black as those curtains that fell over her eyelids earlier, and a blizzard of snowfall was washing across the balcony, distorting it and giving the impression that the scene outside was nothing more than some artist's smeared and unfinished painting.

They had made it halfway across the room when a familiar figure came limping out of a side passage. The Knight of Thorns, his eyelids at half-mast, his mouth curled into a wince, took two steps forward, halted and looked as if he were going to vomit, then leaned into the wall and slid to the floor.

"...Chester?" He croaked as they neared and a grin rose up his ugly face. "I'll be damned."

"What in Izalith happened to you?" Chester asked, pulling Abby to the man's side.

"Witch," he snarled, and Abby immediately knew he meant Quelana. "She must've... fire bitch must've played some _witch _trick on me. I don't know how she did it. Stunned me with a spell, or... something."

"Does she live?" Abby asked, though she wasn't sure why. Quelana, her friend, had abandoned her and only Quelana, the demon, remained.

Kirk looked up at her and frowned. "What are you doing with the girl?"

Chester's grip tightened on Abby's wrist, letting her know she wasn't to speak again. "Taking her... away."

"What's happened, Chester?" Kirk asked. "There's war here isn't there? You can smell it in the air. Smells like blood and death. And that rumbling in the walls... Logan had the truth of it, didn't he? Lordran... It's over, isn't it?"

Chester stared at the man. "It's over," he confirmed.

"Does Quelana live!?" Abby insisted, knowing it would anger Chester but asking anyway.

"The hell should I know," Kirk snapped. "Fire bitch was gone when I came to." He turned on Chester again with a sneer. "Solaire and his big bastard friend, Tarkus, are loose from their cells, too."

_She escaped him. She lives_, Abby thought, and the realization brought her a profound sense of relief. Demon or not, Abby apparently still had love in her heart for the witch that had once been her friend.

"The Archives are as good as lost, Kirk," Chester said.

Kirk nodded. "Yeah... sounds like it."

"I'm leaving."

"As good a plan as any."

"Can you walk?"

Kirk laughed. "What? And come along to spoil your honeymoon with the pretty little Chosen there? Piss off. I'll die here fighting with the rest of the rats. Turns out, I ain't got much better to do."

Chester nodded. He extended his hand and Kirk took it. Abby watched as an unspoken conversation passed silently between their eyes, finding it strange how even men as vile as these two could kindle a friendship strong enough between one another to merit such a farewell.

"In another life," Chester said.

"Aye," Kirk agreed.

With that, he rose, turned, and pulled Abby along beside him to exit the library.

In the short time it had taken them to travel through the Archives' halls and chambers to reach the garden outside, dawn had begun to creep up over the Eastern wall, casting a soft, pale yellow, light on the snows that caked the grass and trees. The cold morning air had a crispness to it, and when Abby took a deep lungful, she found the sensation seemed to open her eyes and alert her senses more than they had been in a long, long, time. Chester shoved her forward on the wooden platform outside the exit to a short ladder leading to the snows below.

"Climb," he said. "And if you try to run, I'll put a bolt in your leg."

She glared at him, but the morning light twinkled on his hip and it pulled her eyes there. His dagger was sheathed but unstrapped beside his hip, sharp and pointy and deadly, and Abby suddenly found an urge coming across her to reach for it.

"_Go_," he commanded so harshly, Abby found her feet and hands moving for the rungs of the ladder before she could even _consider _disobeying him.

The boots he'd laced upon her feet planted in the soft snows of the garden, and Abby released the ladder to stumble forward and gaze up at the wooden platform near the crest of the hill she'd been killed and resurrected upon by Logan days earlier. The crowd that had gathered around her that day was so warm and kind and hopeful and sweet to her. She realized it was the last somewhat-happy moment she'd had other than the moment Lautrec had returned to free her from the cultists. The bonfire there was unlit now, a dead, cold, husk of a pit, and Abby had to pry here eyes from the disheartening sight of the thing before it filled her heart with just as much death and cold.

Chester came beside her and took her by the elbow. "Logan had the bonfire dismantled and the fire's _keeper _removed," he said, pulling her down the slope of the hill and in between a towering stand of dark brown trees. "So when we get inside the cavern, don't think throwing yourself from the cliffs within will save you from me."

They marched through the heavy snows underfoot as morecame twirling from the morning sky above to litter the shoulders and hoods of their cloaks. Abby listened as Chester led her forward to the sounds outside the wall. She could hear the faint beat of a wardrum and the hissing and growling of a thousand terrible hollow, waiting to claw their way inside and skin and slaughter every human they could hunt down. It was as Lautrec said, Abby realized. Even going to them now would be unlikely to halt their rampage. She could hear the malice in their distant grumblings, and knew exactly what they wanted: absolute destruction.

"You can still go back and fight," she said as Chester guided her around a cluster of trees. "There are men like the Knight Solaire who would fight to their very end. They say the Gods reward a good death, and death in defense of the innocent is as good as-"

"If Logan taught me anything," Chester interrupted, "it's that there _are _no Gods. At least no justones. Piss on their reward. They can keep it."

"You're a coward," she told him. "I have no skill with sword or shield at all, but if you were to release me, _I _would go and fight. What does that say about you? What kind of-"

He shoved her down to the snows. Abby caught herself on her elbows and knees and turned to face him, but his hand thundered across her cheek. She collapsed to the ground, but before she could so much as catch her breath, he turned her over and slapped her again, harder.

"Open your mouth," he commanded, his face red and wrinkled with anger, and took hold of her chin. He pulled his dagger from its sheath and brought it beside her cheek; the blade shimmering in the sunlight. "I'm going to take out that sharp little tongue of yours so you can't unleash your _cruelties _upon me ever again."

She pressed her lips firmly together and shook her head, pleading with her eyes, when motion from the bottom of the hill caught her attention. Chester frowned and turned to follow her gaze.

There, emerging from the darkness within the cave at the base of the slope, two of Logan's golems were coming lumbering forward, their hulking bodies of blue crystal shining queerly in the morning light.

Chester's eyes widened and his grip on her chin stiffened. "What in Izalith were they doing in the caverns?"

"...please," Abby pleaded, eyeing the dagger hovering not three inches from her face.

He looked from the golems, to her, and back. They were still coming, and now it was evident by the thundering pace of their footsteps and the way their thick, boulder-like, heads were fixed forward that Chester and Abby were, in fact, their targets.

Chester cursed, punched the snows beside Abby's head, and rose. He shuffled around behind her, grabbed her wrists, and began dragging her backwards through the snows. They came to a thin tree, which Chester immediately pulled her arms around, joined them at the wrist, and wrapped tightly in his belt before buckling it, binding her in place.

"What are you _doing_!?" Abby cried, pulling at her arms that were now wrapped uselessly around the bark of the tree.

Chester pulled his crossbow from his back and loaded a bolt into its firing mechanism. "Logan has set his monsters upon me. Likely, for failing him by losing _you_," he said with a hint of contempt in his voice. "Now I'll have to kill them."

Abby looked from the approaching golems, lumbering up the hill and quickly closing the gap between them, and Chester. "But if you fail... I won't be able to escape," she pleaded, tugging once more at her arms.

He looked down at her. "Then we will be together in death."

She held his dark eyes and, for once, found no lies held within. He meant it. If he were to die, he intended her to follow along behind him. "Don't leave me like this..." she pleaded once more.

He stared at her, ignoring the pounding approach of the golems over his shoulder. "Say you love me..."

Abby's eyes found the twinkle of his dagger beside his hip. When she looked back to his eyes, she nodded. "I... I do. I'm very angry with you, but... I do. I love you, Chester. Please. I only want to hold you once more. If this is... our end... let it be in each other's arms. I don't want to die alone. _Please _don't leave me to die alone beside this tree."

He licked at his lips. "...I know you're lying."

She swallowed and made herself continue to hold his eyes. _If you speak now, he will leave you, _she thought. _Make him believe and don't you cry. Only girls cry._

"...but, perhaps, a lie is better than nothing," he said.

He shouldered his crossbow, returned to her side, and moved to free her hands.

When her wrists came loose, Chester took them and moved them around his neck. He took hold of her waist and stared into her eyes. "We're going to die now. But... I do love you," he said, and for what it was worth, despite all his violence and anger towards her, she believed him. He leaned forward, closed his eyes, and his lips, warm and moist and full, pressed to her own.

He kissed her and she returned the kiss as the snows fell upon their heads and the wind sent their cloaks flying in a swirl around them, and for one beautiful moment that seemed taken right from one of the books of heroes and princesses she'd read as a child, she knew he did truly love her, and for that one, fleeting, moment, she almost loved him back.

Then her hand fell to his hip, ripped his dagger free from its sheath, and drove it into his shoulder.

A high-pitched whine escape his clenched teeth and his eyes opened wide on her own. "The girl has to die so the woman can live," Abby told him, and when his hand reached up to claw at her face, she twisted free of his arms and scrambled back in the snows to escape him.

Chester fell to his hands and knees and screamed such a hate-filled sound, even the approaching golems gave pause. Blood leaked from his shoulder to paint red dots beneath him. He winced and reached back to pull the thing free, but Abby had planted it, unintentionally, just out of range of his grasping hand. His eyes moved to the crossbow beside him and he lurched forward to grab it. Abby beat him there, however, and pulled the thing to her chest just as his fingers grazed its wooden handle.

"_ABBY!_" He wailed, and made to stand, but he must have moved his shoulder in a way that drove the blade further into his flesh, because he cried out and collapsed to the snow, his good arm taking hold of his bad one and squeezing.

She stepped backwards through the snow, her eyes flicking between Chester and the golems, who had begun their approach once more. "I'm... sorry," she told him.

"_ABBYYYY!_" He screamed, his dark eyes lifting to find her own and his breath coming in short, jagged, pulls. When she did not stop moving, he grit his teeth and pulled his gaze from her to look back at the golems. "_Don't you leave me like this! Not without a weapon to defend myself from those... those THINGS! I WON''T DIE LIKE THIS! ABBY! DON'T YOU DO THIS TO ME!_"

His screaming had halted her feet, but she would not allow them to carry her nearer to him. She shook her head. "I-I'm _sorry_."

The golems had reached the trees at the base of the slope. They marched forward, smacking branches from the path with relentless determination.

"_ABBY!_" He shouted, but the anger had fled his voice, and as if he'd pulled some sorcerer's trick, his face became that of the man who'd kissed her so long ago and had been so charming the first few days she'd spent in the Archives. She saw again the dimple of his chin and the cut of his cheekbones and his eyes carried a softness in them that his voice, when he spoke again, matched. "Abby... I love you. Please don't leave me to die to these golems. Leave me my crossbow, Abby. Please. Just my crossbow. I _love _you."

Her eyes lifted to the golems.

"Abby... please?" He asked, his voice nearly a whisper then.

_If you leave him to die, you are no less a monster than those golems, _she thought. _The girl has to die so the woman can live... but the woman will not be heartless. _She nodded. "Okay... alright, Chester."

He smiled as she stepped forward, leaned near, and tossed the crossbow before him to lie in the snows. He crawled on his hands and knees to retrieve it, but Abby did not intend to stick around to watch whatever battle he was going to have with the things. She pulled her eyes from the sad sight of the man clawing his way up the hill, turned, and ran off to return to Lautrec.

She'd made it less than a dozen steps when the bolt pierced her in the back.

Pain wracked her side and stomach, and when she looked to her cloak, the pointed tip of a crossbow bolt was jutting out just above the curve of her hipbone; the thing had gone right _through _her back and burst its way out of her stomach, armor, and cloak. Warm blood blossomed around the wound and Abby fell to her knees, her breath caught in her chest.

She fell face first to the snow, coughing and gagging and wincing as a pain unlike any she'd ever felt rippled its way from the holes in her body down to her feet, back to the wound, and up to her head. Her trembling hands reached beneath her and when they came up, they were so sticky and covered in blood, she knew the wound would be the end of her.

She gasped for air, tasting blood at the back of her mouth, and turned to see Chester crawling his way forward, his _own _blood falling from his shoulder to leave a trail behind him in the snows. The golems were in pursuit behind him.

"_Y_-_You_..." Abby croaked, but when she spoke, her words seemed to drive the bolt deeper into her stomach, and so she clamped her mouth shut and closed her eyes to fight back the pain.

Chester's hand fell upon her ankle; whether he was coming to finish her or to kiss her or to simply die beside her, Abby did not know. It was Lautrec's voice that spoke in her head, _Everyone wants something_. Now she would pay for not listening to his words, and Chester would get what _he_ wanted: her life.

"Abby..." Chester whispered, his hands working their way up her leg, pulling himself nearer to her. "...you little bitch..."

Her own hand worked its way back beneath her stomach, and her fingers found the bolt's shaft and wrapped around it. She tugged on it, and the pain that followed was so severe she nearly fell unconscious.

"Now you die..." Chester told her, clawing his way up to her head. "And I live on without you... will you wait for me in the next life?" And despite the horror of what he'd done and the dagger sticking out of his own shoulder, the man laughed: a sick, twisted, sound that filled the garden.

Abby braced herself, tightened a fist around the bolt protruding from her abdomen, and pulled again. It slid forward, but not enough to exit the wound. The pain bolted through her side again, shutting her eyes and clenching her teeth so hard, she thought she might shatter them.

Chester's hand fell on her cheek. "I loved you, you bitch," he said. "And you _made _me kill you. I _loved _you!"

She coughed, ignoring the agony it brought, and reached for the bolt on final, knowing that if she failed to remove it then, she would surely lose the strength to try again. Her hand found it, wrapped it, and pulled with every last bit of strength she had.

Just when it seemed as if the bolt was going to refuse to leave her again, it jerked forward, and her hand came away gripping it tightly between blood-soaked knuckles. Chester's hand reached for her throat, and Abby spun on her side to face him.

She didn't know where the strength came from to scream, but scream she did: a thunderous, powerful, thing that sent Chester's head reeling back in retreat. She climbed atop his waist, ignoring the pain that threatened to send her mind to the dark void that awaited it, took the bolt in both hands, and drove it down into his chest.

Then she did it again.

And again.

...and again.

She wasn't just killing Chester. She was killing the foolish girl within her who had made so many mistakes. Who had cost so many innocent people their lives. Who had walked into trap after trap like some naive child. She was killing Logan for deceiving her and Patches for betraying Lautrec on the bridge that distant day in the Burg so long ago. She was killing the hollows that marched upon the castle and the demons that haunted her dreams. She was killing every foul beast that had ever harmed anyone in Lordran and she was killing the golems too. She was killing _Gwyn_, though she'd never seen him and now - never would.

When her arms stopped moving, Chester's eyes stared blankly into the morning sky above, snow falling on his once-comely, and now-lifeless, face.

The adrenaline gone from her body, the pain returned and Abby collapsed atop him; listening as the pounding of the golems footsteps neared.

She lifted one, trembling, hand to her face, and wiped at her cheek. There were no tears upon it. She smiled. _Only girls cry, _she thought, _and the girl I was is dead. I only wish the woman whose taken her place could have lived a little longer... Lautrec would have been proud._

She laid her head against Chester's chest and closed her eyes. The golem's footsteps were just behind her then, and their pounding became a gentle rhythm to send her off into whatever awaited her in death. It was not Lautrec's face she saw in the darkness, though. It was Ben's.

_Up to you now, _she told him. _I failed. I failed because I lived as a girl._

_ ...at least I die as a woman._

Blackness then; nothing more.


	34. Chapter 34

**Author's Note: **_Well, it took 34 chapters, but Ben's part of the story is finally here. So for anyone that messaged me or left a review saying, 'Hey, what about that Ben guy? What's that all about?', here you go. I always knew he'd have a viewpoint, I just had to wait til it was relevant. Didn't realize that would take 160k plus words, but, here it is. Also, thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, and reviewed this story. It is much appreciated and has helped return me to the keyboard time and time again to tell this massive tale. There is still a ways to go, but I do know where this all ends. I've known since the beginning, I just didn't know the road was going to be as long as it's become. I've got some more walking to do before the finish line. If you've come this far, I'd only ask that you keep walking with me. Thanks._

* * *

"We have to go save them," he told the others.

On the distant cliffs that loomed over Anor Londo's great stone wall, the Duke's Archives were spewing dark smoke into the air so thickly and in such tight clusters, the black tendrils rising from the fires looked like some giant's fist, closing tightly around the castle to smother it between massive, ebony, fingers. The sky above the keep had grown to a queer shade of purple, and a swirling mass of snow rained chunks of ice down around it. Dawn was rising to the East, and as morning came, the faint outline of winged beasts flying in the skies around the Archive's took form. To the North, the drumming that had started the previous day banged on: aggressive and tenacious. Whatever was happening to the Duke's Archives, the end was nearly upon it; that much was now clear.

Ben turned from the doorway. "Did you not hear me? We _have _to go save them."

Neither Patches nor Pharis bothered to look away from the table between them, where an overturned cup housing an eight-sided die stood erect on the table's center. Patches had his dagger stuck into the table beside him, and was twirling it in a circle beneath his index finger as his tongue ran across his bottom lip and his eyes narrowed on the cup. The woman who called herself 'Pharis' was leaned back, grinning, her feet resting on the edge of the table, her hands behind her head. Her pale blue eyes moved from the cup, to Patches, and back. The grin widened.

"You gonna' call it or am I gonna' just take your wine now?" She taunted.

"Piss off, woman, I'm gonna' call it," he told her. "I call it... _under_. No, wait. ...yeah. Alright. _Under_!" He plucked the cup from the table. Beneath, the die was resting on a six. "_Shit_!"

Pharis laughed, clapped her hands together excitedly, and reached for his skin of wine. He began to protest, but the woman tilted her head back and took a long swig.

"Hey! That's more than a _swallow_, woman!" Patches complained, leaning forward to retrieve his wineskin.

Dark red wine trickled down Pharis' chin as it came away. She swiped at her lips with the back of her sleeve and frowned. "Sore loser."

"Maybe I am," Patches admitted. "But if you take another drink like that, I'll give you something _else _to swallow. And it ain't gonna' be outta no _wine_skin, neither."

"Careful, Hyena," she told him with a wink. "I'm prone to _bite _things that find their way near my mouth."

"Oh, I don't mind a little pain mixed with my pleasure," he said with a shrug.

"_Hey_!" Ben shouted. "Did you two not hear me?" He walked beside the table and scooped the die into his fist, prompting both their eyes to rise to his. "We have to go to the Duke's Archives. _I _have to go. There's... something wrong. If I don't leave soon, they'll all die."

"Shut up and sit down," Pharis told him. "And put the die back on the table before my _boot_ finds its way up your _ass_."

Ben narrowed his eyes on her's. "You can _try_," he told her. "But I'm not in ropes anymore. It won't be as easy to kick me around."

"Oh no?" She asked and moved to stand.

Ben kicked the leg of her chair, and because of the way she was sitting, threw it off balance. Pharis' arms pinwheeled, she tried to lean forward to counter the weight, but it was too late: both her and the chair she sat in crashed to the floor. The woman clambered furiously to her feet, and when she got there, pulled her dagger free and stepped forth with the weapon raised.

Patches moved to her, grabbed her wrist, and pried it free as she glared across the small room at Ben. "As amusing as it would be to watch you two kill each other," he said, spinning her around and shoving her back towards her chair. "It would greatly lower _my_ chances of surviving if whatever's happening at the Archives starts happening here. So play nice, kids, huh?"

"Piss off, Hyena," Pharis growled, sending her glare back at Ben as she stood her fallen chair back on its legs. "The _boy _has been getting on my nerves lately. I say we tie him back up and leave him out in the snows til Nico and Vince get back. Let him _cool off_."

"Also amusing," Patches admitted, returning to his seat. "But once again, lowers my survival chances should a fight come our way."

The woman chortled. "Ain't no _fight _comin' here. He's full of it."

Patches glanced Ben's way, and Ben saw a look on the man's face that _wanted _to agree with her, but knew it couldn't. Pharis might not have been there at the Undead Asylum when Ben died and rose again from the fires to be reborn, but Patches was. He, at least, seemed to consider Ben's words. "Even if what you say is true, kid," he began, "so _what _if they all die? What do you care?"

Ben looked back to those distant cliffs where the Archive's continued spewing its own destruction into the skies and sighed. _Why _do_ you care? _He wondered. It wasn't for Lautrec, that much he was sure of. It had been _twice _now that the knight had abandoned him, and the three day limit Nico had warned Lautrec of to return before he departed had come and gone and the knight never showed. Thankfully, the dragon-worshipers hadn't headed out on their pilgrimage anyway, but it was clear then that Lautrec didn't give a damn about Ben, and that was fine; he didn't give a damn about _Lautrec _either. Not anymore. His concerns also weren't for the witch. She'd barely spoken to him in their brief time traveling together, and she had not protested when Lautrec voted to leave him behind at Domhnall's in the Burg.

It was Abby's face that had risen from the darkness of his sleep to whisper a warning that croaked through blood-soaked lips. _It's up to you now_, her voice had spoken, ghostly and faint and carrying queer reverberations that echoed through his thoughts. She was either dead or dying-he could not say how he knew it, but he did-and Ben found neither possibility bothered him much. From the moment he'd put that arrow in her chest at the Undead Asylum and Lautrec had killed him for it, he'd felt a subtle pressure mounting between the two of them. They'd hardly spoken, but the competition was there, and if there had been a first round, Abby surely had won it. They all loved her. Lautrec, Quelana, even Domhnall, who he'd spent considerably more time with, seemed to worship at her stupid feet. Ben had heard him pleading with Lautrec to rescue her from Logan, telling him Abby was 'Lordran's last hope'.

_And what am I? _Ben had thought. _Why don't any of them respect me? Why don't they believe in _me!? He knew if he let thoughts like those linger in his head and poison his mind, they'd only break him, and so he kept his attention elsewhere, but now the question had risen again: _Why save them_? _Why when they would surely not save you?_

"Boy?" Patches asked. "You still with us over there?"

Ben pulled his stare from the Archives. He looked to Patches and thought, with some distant, bitter, humor, that the man was the closest thing now he had to a friend. "I don't care about Lautrec," Ben told him. "Or _Abby, _for that matter. But if Lordran is to be saved, we need help. If the castle falls... everyone in it falls as well. People that... well, if Abby is dead, and I think she is, maybe one day they'd... well, maybe they'd follow _me_ in her place."

"_We _follow the Path," Pharis said, sticking her finger towards him. "The Eternal Dragon will offer his salvation. We don't needno Chosen _boy _to save ourasses."

"Oh, shut up," he snapped. Pharis' mouth gaped incredulously, but he pressed on before she could speak. "Neither of you believe in that nonsense and I know you don't. Every time Nico or Vince starts in one of their 'prayers', I see both of you go along with it, sure, but the dedication they have? You _don't _share it."

Patches and Pharis shared a look, and Ben, who hadn't been a hundred percent on his accusation, at least not of the red-headed woman, breathed relief. Their expressions told the same story: he was right.

"Well we _got _to believe in something," Pharis said, though the confidence had left her voice.

"Believe in _me_!" Ben pleaded. "Patches, tell her! Tell her what you saw at the Asylum! I rose from the flames! I _died _and came back!"

Patches shrugged, took a sip from his wineskin, and scratched at his chin. "Well... he _did _do that, I s'ppose. But, kid, even if we all hauled our sorry asses up there, and there _is _some massive army of hollows marching on the Archives, what exactly do you think the three of us are going to _do_ about it? Even if Nico and Vince return from the Parish with Andre and the others and you somehow talked _them _into it, that still puts our numbers at less than ten. Ten against an army? That's called suicide."

"Piss on them odds," Pharis added with a nod.

"I'm telling you, I can stop this. I don't know how or why but I _know _I can," Ben pleaded with them. "Believe in me! Patches..."

Patches avoided looking his way. The bald man took another swig of wine instead, covered up the dice on the table between Pharis and himself, and asked, "'Nother game?"

Ben's shoulders slumped. _To Izalith when them too then, _he thought, kicking the wall beside him and balling his hands into fists. _To Izalith with all of them. They'll see. When they realize their precious little hero, Abby, had failed them, they'll see. Then they'll _have _to respect me. _With nothing else he could do, Ben lowered himself to the floor beside the doorway, cradled his knees, and watched the smoke rise from the cliffs, wishing he was there beside them, if nothing else, just so he could have watched Abby die.

They morning grew to noon and the noon was nearly _night _when Nico finally returned to them. Ben hadn't spoken a word the entire time, choosing instead to watch the Archives and do his best to stay awake. He'd nodded out twice, his head falling to his chest, but both times he'd seen horrible flashes of mutilated corpses and severed heads and blood raining from the sky alongside the snow and ice. He could not sleep, and so when Nico's large frame entered the doorway, Ben scrambled to his feet and for one, mad, moment, nearly attacked the man.

Nico frowned. "You untied him."

"No point in keepin' the kid all bound up," Patches said. "He ain't got no weapons on him."

"He is our _captive_," Nico reminded the bald man as he shouldered past Ben, red in the face from the exertion of his travels, and slumped his thick frame into a chair. He swiped sweat from his brow and laid his mace on the table beside him.

"Well?" Pharis asked when the sound of Nico's labored breaths quieted. "Was the boy tellin' the truth or what? What did you find at the Parish? Where's Vince?"

"Vince is coming up behind me," Nico explained. He turned to Ben and stared. "The boy told it true. We're about to have guests."

When the third day of his captivity was drawing to a close, and Ben drawing more desperate to delay being hauled off to the Great Hollow to be brought before some eternal dragon, he had done the one thing he could think of that would delay them. He'd told of Andre and Sieglinde and Domhnall's whereabouts. "Don't call me '_boy_' anymore," Ben snapped. "I told you I had friends at the Parish, now _you _owe me something."

The fat man's frown deepened. "Owe you? You are our prisoner. Don't let the generosity of _those _two," he said, casting a dark look Patches and Pharis' way, "fool you, _boy_, or you'll be back in your ropes."

_Boy_, he thought, his fists clenching so tightly, his nails bled his palm. Every time he heard the word now, it was _Lautrec's _voice taunting him. He took a breath to calm himself. "You stand to gain _nothing _now by keeping me here," Ben told him. "Lautrec is _gone _and he's not coming back. Isn't that clear to you by now? I told you about my friends. What more do you want from me!? Let me _go_!"

"Go where?" Nico asked.

"There," Ben said, nodding to the horizon, to the smoke streaming into the night and the distant fires burning the castle alive like fireflies resting on a chunk of stone.

Nico laughed. "I think not, boy. Madness lies that way. Nothing more. When Vince and your 'friends' return, we will gather ourselves, pool our information, and then we will offer them a place in the Order so that they may walk the Path true with us and accompany us to the Great Hollow. Then we will be saved. The Archives? Those are damned men now. Our brethren amongst them included."

"Rickert? Rhea? Tarkus? Laurentius?" Pharis asked, biting at her lip. "You mean... we're going to leave 'em _all _behind."

"We sent the knight to retrieve them," Nico said. "He either failed us or betrayed us. Either way, we did what we could. Father Eternal will watch over them in the next life if they stayed true to the Path."

"This is _crap_," Ben snapped, punching the table between Nico and himself. "You're keeping me here for no good reason!"

"You watch your tongue, boy," Nico said, laying his meaty hand over the hilt of his mace.

"_Stop calling me boy!_" Ben shouted so loudly, he saw Patches almost choke on his wine beside them. "I'm a man grown, twenty _damn _years old! I'm not some child to be dismissed! I'm the _CHOSEN!_" He rose to his feet before he could think better of it. "And _you _are a delusional, _fat_, old man who needs to get out of my _damned _way!"

Nico took up his mace and stood himself (with some effort). He took a step forward, his large frame towering over Ben's smaller one. "Get the ropes and tie our captive here up. He has seemed to forget his _place _here."

"I know my place," Ben told him. "I'm the Chosen Undead. My place is to stand before the darkness that threatens this world and deny it entrance. _Your _place is at my feet. Worshiping the ground I walk on."

"Heretic!" Nico snapped. He tossed the chair between them aside with such force, its wooden leg splintered off the wall it smacked against. He crossed the gap with surprising speed for his size and took hold of Ben's tunic at the chest. "Don't you speak of worship in front of me. Don't you _dare _speak such blasphemy in my presence, boy!"

_Boy_. Ben looked into Nico's eyes and found Lautrec's staring back at him; _laughing _at him. "Get your hands off me," he said quietly, refusing his temper to overthrow him. He reached up and grabbed the heavy hands at his tunic, trying to pry them free.

"What are you two doing? _Bind _him I said!" Nico growled at Patches and Pharis.

Ben heard the scraping of their chairs over his shoulder.

"Let me go," Ben warned him again.

"Quiet," Nico commanded.

"Let me go _now_."

"I said to be quiet, boy!"

_Boy_. A flame ignited in Ben's chest. It burned the air away that his lungs were gasping for making it hard to breath, hard to think, hard to see. He narrowed his vision on the fat man's fat face and saw the face of every man, woman, and _witch _that had disrespected him. He tightened his grip on Nico's hands so tightly his knuckles ached. He could feel his arms trembling, his legs threatening to buckle, his stomach wanting to spill the little food and drink his captors had supplied it with. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to tear Nico's eyes from his head and pour his hatred into the fat man's empty skull.

Nico's face ran white. He opened his mouth as if to shout, but only a reedy whine hissed from within. He choked, his fat jowls shaking as violently as Ben's hands, his eyes flipping back into his skull and going as white as Ben's knuckles. A trickle of blood raced from his nose and his grip fell from Ben's tunic. The fat man reeled back on his heel, sounded one last gurgle of a protest, and fell to the floor.

It didn't take a cleric to see: he was dead.

Ben stood over him, gasping for breath and staring at his corpse with his mouth agape. He pulled his eyes from the horror and saw Patches and Pharis standing beside him, staring down at Nico with wide-eyed looks of incredulity on their faces.

"I..." Ben croaked. He looked back at Nico, thinking he might have _imagined _the whole thing, but the fat man's motionless body and bloody nose told him otherwise. "I... I didn't mean to..." Ben managed. His stomach lost the battle that had been waging within it and he rushed for the doorway, leaned outside, and vomited into the snows. When he turned back, Patches and Pharis hadn't moved; they simply stood looking down upon Nico's corpse, not saying a word. Ben lurched his way back to them, using the wall as support, and joined their gaze. "I... I don't hat happened, I... I didn't _mean _to."

"But you did," Patches finally said, not removing his stare from the body.

Pharis pried her eyes away and they fell upon Ben beside her. She grimaced and recoiled as if he were a demon. She reached for her dagger and stumbled back to the corner of the room, keeping a cautious, if not _terrified_, eye on him. "What in Izalith are you?" She muttered. "What demonry did you cast upon him?"

"I don't know!" Ben pleaded. "I swear! I never did that, I-"

"Calm yourself, Ben," Patches said. He turned to face him and, to Ben's amazement, was actually _grinning. _"It looks like the _girl_ wasn't the only Chosen to walk out of that Undead Asylum with a gift."

"Gift?" Ben echoed. He looked down at his hands: bone white, trembling, and cold as the snows he'd just vomited into. "What... _gift_?"

"You know I never thought it was nothin' special," Patches went on, prodding Nico's lifeless side with the toe of his boot. "Abby's little trick, that is. The power to calm a demon? So what? What good can that do us? She's not going to _hug _the bloody hollow into submission. But what _you _just did..." He stepped forward and laid a hand on Ben's shoulder. "Kid... you got the power of _death _in your hands. _That_... well, that is something I can get behind."

"What's goin' _on_!" Pharis screeched. Her wide eyes flicked from Ben to Patches and back. "What did he just do to Nico! What in Izalith is he!?"

Patches stared at Ben and his grin widened. "He's the Chosen. The _true _Chosen. Kneel before your savior, woman." Patches dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

Ben turned to Pharis. Her mouth was moving up and down, perhaps looking for some logical protest. When she, evidently, found none, she slowly lowered herself to a knee, keeping a wary eye on Ben as she did.

"Vince is going to kill me," Ben said. "I... Gods, I _killed _Nico."

"Aye, Vince will kill you," Patches admitted, rising once again. "If he finds out, that is."

Ben looked to him.

Patches laughed. "Maybe... well, maybe the climb up and down all them stairs and walkways was a bit much for the heart wrapped up in old Nico's lumpy chest there. Maybe it quit on him just as he was almost here."

"Lie to him?" Ben asked, shaking his head. "But... But I-"

"Murdered a man, yes," Patches said. "It is what is and what's done is done. But what I just saw, Ben, was _power_. A power that we can't simply throw away because of an accident. And it _was _an accident. I saw it. _You _saw it," he said, looking to Pharis.

She swallowed, nodded, but did not seem to have the courage to speak.

"And you're going to keep your big mouth shut and go along with what I say, won't you?"

Again, Pharis nodded, her eyes glancing fearfully towards Ben's.

"Well there you have it," Patches said. "Our little secret. Nico's heart gave in on him. A pity. Hee-hee."

"I didn't mean to kill him," Ben said again, something inside him telling him it was important they understood that. "I didn't know that would happen. I just... got so angry."

"I believe you," Patches told him. "And I believe _in _you now. I can be your right hand man, Benjamin. We can be very good friends." He glanced to Pharis. "Her too, I s'ppose. The three of us together? Your power, my cunning, and her... well _her_? Wemight just be what Lordran needs to save it, don't you think?"

"Y-yes," Ben admitted. "I... I can do it."

"I know you can," Patches said. "And when it is done and Lordran comes to celebrate their Chosen hero, their _true _Chosen hero, the three of us will be the ones to call the shots, won't we?"

"I... guess..." Ben muttered; he had the distinct feeling he was living in some twisted dream.

"You just keep in mind that if we go to these Archives and our old buddy, Lautrec, is alive... he's going to be awfully mad with me for that whole 'throwing him off the bridge' business back in the Burg. But you and me, Ben? We're friends, aren't we? You wouldn't let him do anything nasty to your old pal, Patches, would you?"

"No," Ben answered immediately. "Lautrec can rot in Izalith for all I care."

Patches grin widened yet again. "That's good of you to say, Ben."

Pharis finally mustered the courage to rise to her feet. Her eyes darted between the two of them. "Are you... going to tell them about your... uh, _gift_, or whatever it is when the others come?"

"You can't," Patches answered for him. "They'll make the connection with our fat corpse of a friend here." He kicked at Nico's arm. "We have to keep this quiet. Keep it between the three of us. Just us. For now."

And they did. Vince returned a few minutes later. The man's face filled with dread upon seeing Nico's corpse. He collapsed to his knees, crawled forth, and cradles the man's head in his lap. The tears came to his plump cheeks so quickly, Ben could only stare at him thinking, _I spilled those tears from your eyes. It is my fault. _Patches told his story with such conviction, Ben himself almost believed it. The bald man was a very skilled liar. Vince only sobbed and kissed at Nico's brow while the tale of the false heart attack was relayed to him. Pharis kept her mouth shut as Patches instructed, but her eyes kept flicking to Ben's and squinting, as if waiting for him to burst into some other-worldly creature.

It was Sieglinde who was the first to round the corner, and the sight of the woman was the first thing he'd seen since Lautrec abandoned him that brought him some sense of peace. He rushed to the doorway and Sieglinde greeted him with a warm smile and a wrap of her big arms around his shoulders. She squeezed him and ruffled his hair. The two of them had developed a big sister/little brother type relationship at the Parish, and it was good to rekindle it. It almost made him forget he was a murderer. Almost.

Domhnall and Andre came next and exchanged hugs with Ben as well. Ben didn't speak, _couldn't _speak, at least not yet, so it was Patches who did all the talking. Ben learned from their conversations that the children were being watched over by the oldest boy, and that they were safely hidden away at the Undead Parish with enough food and drink to last them a few days. He learned the three of them had come with Vince and Nico to see Ben and see if the two groups could join up. Nico had planned for them all to be a bunch of dragon-worshipers, but Patches mentioned nothing of that and Vince was too busy weeping over his fallen friend to say otherwise. Patches told them of a grand plan to ride Sen's Fortresses' winged-demon up to Anor Londo, to sweep upon the flank of the army of hollows, and to save the Chosen one: Abby.

Ben looked at him when he said it, and when Patches found a moment to return the look, he winked and the gesture was all Ben need to understand. He was using _Abby_, the one thing in Lordran everyone seemed to believe in, to gather their loyalty to the mission. Ben looked upon the man then, his only friend, with new respect for the Hyena's cleverness.

After a moment's discussion, he had them all agreeing to it. The seven of them were to leave on the morrow for Anor Londo; to venture out on a mad rescue mission. Ben had gotten his wish.

He looked down at Vince. The man's face was so red and stricken with grief, he was barely recognizable as he cradled the corpse Ben had created in his thick arms. Ben knew he should feel guilt or sympathy or some sadness for the man, but as he stared on, the only feeling that stirred within him was pride.

He was the Chosen, always had been, and with both Nico and Abby out of his way, it was _his _time to become Lordran's hero. He looked to Patches who winked and nodded. Ben returned the gesture.

_The boy in me is as dead as Abby, _he thought. _Now the _man_ will rise._

When dawn broke the next morning, they set out for Anor Londo.


	35. Chapter 35

The prison tower was alive with the sounds of whirring cogs and spinning pipes and metal grinding against metal, and as they neared the end of the spiraling staircase, Quelana could _smell_ the metal too; a pungent, heavy, scent that reminded her of the lingering aroma that would follow a sword fight in Blighttown. When her bare feet pressed to the stone floor at the tower's base, Quelana rounded the pillar there with Rickert and Rhea at her side and looked to the room's center.

Logan's machine had been turned on. It loomed over the room, dominating every inch of it, and had become a swirling stack of wood and metal. Cogs spun, their grooved edges catching the edges of those around it, and spinning beside them went the bars and planks and wheels they connected with. A curved piece of brass swooped the outer rim of the machine, and as Quelana stared up at it and the thing spun faster and faster around the construction's core, it began to take on the form of a great golden circle encasing and protecting the intricate web of pieces within. Standing beneath the massive thing, the sounds she'd began hearing at the top of the room had grown almost deafening, so when Rhea tugged at the sleeve of her robe and spoke, the words were lost. Quelana stole one last glance at the machine, pried her eyes away, and led the cleric and Rickert beneath the arched passage at the room's end and through the secret bookshelf entrance that led to Logan's dungeon.

"What in Izalith is that thing!" Rickert asked when the bookshelf had been closed behind them, muffling the machine's noise and leaving them in the dark, quiet, confines of the tunnel within the tower's wall. The young man's eyes found Quelana's own in the darkness, and a flash of chagrin came upon his face. "Oh, uh, sorry. Heh. Forgot we've actually got someone _from _Izalith in our company."

"Crude," Rhea said with a shake of her head. "Lady Quelana, are you certain we will be safe in here? I didn't see Logan anywhere out there, but that machine... who else would have turned on such a monstrous thing? Surely he is near. Perhaps, well, he heard us coming and went into hiding? Oh, or perhaps he has set us a trap further along!? Or maybe-"

Rickert took her by the arm and started leading her forward. "Maybe we should just go see for ourselves, hm?" A look of disappointment came across Rhea's comely face, but she voiced no protest and allowed herself to be ushered forth.

Quelana turned and led them deeper down the tunnel's winding path, laying her hand against the jagged rock that was the walls and letting it be her guide in the darkness. She wasn't prepared to ignite her flame, at least not before she was certain they were not in any danger being there. "When last I saw that mad machine," she whispered over her shoulder to the followers at her heels, "it was dormant. The sorcerer had set his golems upon it to construct it."

"What does it _do_?" Rhea's hushed voice questioned.

"That I do not know," Quelana admitted. "But it does seem to be picking up speed. Let us hope that when it reacheswhatever momentum is seeks... it does not bring the castle walls down around us."

To that, neither of them had a reply.

The tunnel opened to the first prison chamber. Quelana led them into the widening cave of rock and moved to the bars of the room's cell. A torch hung ensconced at her side, and in its dim glow she saw the dark figure of a body lying in a shadowed corner. It was not moving, and after a moment's watch, she realized it was not even breathing.

"Who's that?" Rickert asked.

"I believe he _was _a man named Griggs," Quelana answered. She could still see his face the day she'd first stumbled upon the mad dungeon. It had been dirty and emaciated and so stricken with grief and fear and helplessness behind those bars, she'd had a hard time holding the man's eyes. "He wrote a letter explaining his false imprisonment at Logan's hands," she went on. "It was _him _who took the fall when the mad sorcerer hunted down and executed Lordran's firekeepers. His tongue had been cut from his mouth."

Rhea grimaced beside her and put her fingers to her lips. "Poor soul..."

"Sounds like Logan to me," Rickert said. "Bastard. If I get my hands on the madman, I'll be sure to chop off more than just his tongue."

_Where are you, Abby? _Quelana thought. _Where has Lautrec taken you? _She glanced to the tunnel winding deeper in the dungeon and felt a chill take her spine. The horrors that awaited would only grow more severe as they pressed on. Quelana was turning to tell her followers as much when movement caught her eye within the cell. Her eyes snapped to the corner opposite Griggs, where the torch's light had not carried far enough to illuminate. Something was huddled up in the corner.

"Ready yourselves," Quelana told the cleric and sorcerer at her side, moved to the end of the bars, and sparked a lash of flame from her fingertips.

The prison interior came alive with a fiery glow, and Quelana saw Anastacia of Astora-_Carim_, she reminded herself-seated on the floor, cradling her knees in the corner. When the light hit her, she squinted and held a hand to shield herself. "D-don't burn me..." her voice pleaded, and it carried such quiet, sad, desperation, Quelana quelled her flame immediately.

"Anastacia!" Rhea shouted, taking the bars imprisoning the firekeeper in her hands. "Are you alright?"

"He's here..." Ana's soft voice replied; she hadn't moved. "My brother... He's alive and he's here."

It was Quelana's turn to grab the bars and lean forth to question her. "Did you see him, Ana? Was he with Abby? What has happened to them?"

From the darkness, a sniffle sounded. "No. I did not see anyone. Logan... he put me in here. He said I... he said I was to be my brother's prize. For... his hard work. He said Lautrec is coming for me."

"No one will harm you Ana," Rhea assured her. "Rickert, get this door open and get her out of there. Quickly!"

Rickert moved to the cell door, pulled a lockpick from within his cloak, and set about working the thin hooks of the thing inside the door's lock.

"Logan was going to reward Lautrec by letting him kill you," Quelana said, thinking on this new information and a feeling of hope stealing across her. "But you still live. That means whatever he wanted from Lautrec... Lautrec did not give him. Abby may yet still live."

"I heard him..." Ana went on in her quiet, shaky, tone. "I heard his voice outside in the tower's main chamber. I haven't heard his voice... since we were children, but I knew it was him. I _knew _it. Oh, Gods... my baby brother. You told me he was dead." She sobbed in the darkness.

A _click _popped in the cell's door and Rickert swung the thing back on its rusted hinges, grinning and taking a dramatic bow (to which Rhea quickly slapped his shoulder for). Ana whimpered, and Quelana could hear her boots scraping the rock underfoot in attempt to distance herself from the freedom that awaited.

Quelana, having heard the woman's sad tale of family death and a brother's obsessive vengeance, felt she was the only one who understood the firekeeper, and so it was her who entered the cell first. She crossed in the darkness to Ana, glancing only briefly at Griggs' corpse, and knelt beside the woman. "Ana, your brother will not hurt you. We won't allow it. There may be enough of a decent man in him yet to talk him out of this mad quest of revenge against you. If he was here before in the tower and Logan _didn't _give you to him, perhaps... perhaps he stands _against _the sorcerer. Perhaps he stand with us."

"You don't know my brother," Anastacia told her. She swiped a tear from her cheek. "He is relentless. We were barely teenagers when the other cruel boys in Carim... they teased him so fiercely when he was squiring to become a knight. He hardly slept. He trained like... like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. It was a dedication unlike any I'd ever encountered. He wanted to be a knight and he was _going _to be one at any cost. The others mocked him because they didn't understand his devotion. How could they? A boy is supposed to be happy and free... not a slave to to his own ambition. And now... now it is my _life_ he devotes himself so fervently to taking. And I... I suppose I deserve my death."

"You don't know he will kill you for certain. A man can change," Quelana said.

"A man can," Anastacia admitted. "But I killed the man my brother would have been the night I caused our family to burn in their beds. Now only the _knight_ remains... that cold, stubborn, relentless thing my little brother desired so deeply to become as a boy. Well, become it he has. And it is coming for me."

"Quelana..." Rickert's voice called over her shoulder, and he didn't need further words for her to understand the tone: they had lingered long enough, and it was time to move.

"Come," Quelana said, finding Ana's hand in the darkness and guiding her to her feet. "The castle is under siege and golems run wild within the walls. I will protect you from them, your brother, and anything else that seeks to harm you."

"B-but..." Ana protested.

"The flames are a part of both our lives," Quelana went on. "You, a keeper of fire, and I, a childof it. My sisters and I shared a saying when we were younger. Say it with me now and let the words still your nerves. I am a strong flame, and a strong flame does not waver."

Anastacia hesitated in the dark. When her voice finally came, it was thick with sorrow, but somewhere within, Quelana heard a bit of confidence wishing to rise forth. "I am a strong flame. A strong flame does not waver."

Hand-in-hand they departed the cell. Rhea offered the firekeeper a comforting smile once outside and took her by the arm; Quelana slipping her own away with some effort to press further into the dungeon ahead.

At the next opening in the tunnel, Quelana had forgotten what the cell within housed. When she rounded the rocky corner and faced the prison, her breath turned to ice in her chest and she stumbled backwards into Rickert's arms.

"What is it!?" He whispered.

"Wolf," Quelana told him, gasping for a breath to compose herself. "A very big wolf."

The last time she'd seen the forest wolf that Laurentius had named 'Sif', the beast had doubled in size since leaving the Darkroot Garden and finding itself locked behind the bars in Logan's dungeon. Now the beast had grown far, far, larger - _so _large, in fact, the barred section of tunnel that housed it could no longer contain the creature's body. Thick tufts of grey and white fur pressed between the bar's gaps, and below, massive paws nearly the size of a grown man's body were struggling to find room for themselves. The wolf's giant head was angled away from them, but upon their entrance, a single, black, eye moved their way and the fur around the beast's snout lifted into a malicious snarl. A single drop of saliva fell from the creature's mouth. It landed in the dirt below, leaving a damp circle big enough to stand in.

"_Father eternal_," Rhea's hushed exclamation of awe came behind her shoulder.

"Big wolf? Bit of an understatement, aye witch?" Rickert questioned, pulling Rhea closer to him and keeping his widened eyes locked warily on the bars of the cell. "That thing is-"

The wolf growled, and the sound came so deep and bassy, Quelana felt the rocks rumble beneath her feet. It's snarl grew more aggressive and the beast pawed at the dirt underfoot in attempt to maneuver itself towards them. It's sole visible eye darted between the four of them as its head pressed against the bars. The wolf drove its shoulder forward, colliding with the metal that imprisoned it. The bars did not budge, and the beast's anger only swelled further.

"If that thing gets loose..." Rhea began.

"It would be very bad for us," Rickert confirmed. "So let us hope it does not. Those bars look like they'll hold... probably."

Quelana turned away from the monster, thinking that if she held the thing's eye for one moment longer, its teeth would chew through the bars and then through _her_. "The children should be in the next cell. Come. I do not wish to rile this creature's anger any further."

They moved through the room, keeping their backs to the wall furthest from the beast. The wolf watched them go; its massive tail beating at the wall behind it and a steady stream of drool dripping from its barred fangs.

In the next widened section of tunnel, they came upon the children. The nine little ones that Quelana had found earlier-unlike the wolf-were just as she'd first found them: sitting on the floor of the cell, their limp heads resting upon one another's or their own chests, and their eyes rolled back, a sheet of icy blue in their place.

"Poor things!" Rhea cried as Rickert moved to the door and worked his lockpick into it. "How could any man be capable of such a horrendous act as to imprison innocent children! How dark must a heart be to go without empathy for these sweet little things?"

Quelana opened her mouth to reply, but a faint and distant noise caught her attention. She cocked her head to the side, listening intently, and doing her best to ignore the _clinks _and _clanks _of Rickert's lockpicking.

"What is it, Quelana?" Rhea asked.

"We need to hurry," she told the priestess.

"Why?"

"Because the golems are coming."

Both the priestess and Rickert froze in place and looked to her. For one brief moment they appeared perplexed. Then they heard what she'd heard: drumming forth from somewhere nearby, the pounding rhythms of heavy footsteps on the approach. Rickert cursed beneath his breath and went back to work opening the cell. Rhea glanced fearfully down the path they'd come before snapping her head back to the path lying yet untaken before them.

"I can't tell what side it comes from," she said.

Quelana closed her eyes to focus on the sound. _A strong flame does not waver, _she told herself upon finding the footsteps' source. "That's because they approach from _both_ sides."

Rhea's eyes widened beneath her white hood. "We're trapped...?"

The cell door's handle popped and swung open. Rickert made no display of showmanship this time. He only ran a hand through his hair and reached for the catalyst at his belt.

"Get in," Quelana told them, gesturing to the cell. "Anastacia, here," she called to the firekeeper. Ana stumbled forth as if in a dream, allowed Quelana to take her hand, and was guided into the cell. Rhea followed, pulling her talisman from within her maiden's robes and instructing Ana to gather the children in a tight circle. Quelana turned on Rickert. "Lock them in. Yourself too if you feel you cannot fight."

He pulled the door shut and twisted at the handle til it clicked. "I can fight," he said, though his voice lacked its usual facetious tone and the color had ran from his face. "I can't hurl bloody _fireballs _out of my palm, but I can cast a spell or two." He faced Rhea. "Just _hurry_, Ray, alright?"

The priestess had already fallen to her knee and lowered her head reverently; her talisman clutched in her gloved hand and held to her lips as she whispered a prayer. The talisman took on a soft, golden, glow, bathing both herself, Ana, and the children in its warmth. Quelana turned from them to the tunnels. The one at their rear was empty, but when she looked to the one leading back to the wolf, a massive blue and white figure filled the passage and lowered itself to peer back at her.

"Ugly fellow, ain't he?" Rickert asked.

As if in response, the crystal golem's tree trunk arm lashed out and buried itself into the tunnel wall. The monster lumbered forth, its frame so large, its shoulders scraped at the narrow tunnel walls beside it, clawing loose dirt and rocks free to spill behind in the creature's path. Its feet pounded the earth, leaving soft craters in its wake.

Quelana darted to the tunnel's entrance, joined her hands at the wrists, and angled her palms forward. She commanded a pillar of flame to rocket forth, the dark walls coming alive in a fiery glow as the attack twisted its way down the path and into the golem. The creature dropped its shoulder and raised an arm to shield itself. Her fire beat at its hulking body, but did not halt the thing's progress. It came soldiering forward, forcing the wall of flame that lashed its shoulder to grow closer and closer until Quelana could feel her own flames heating her face and threatening to catch fire to her robes. She killed the flame, spun to face Rickert, and shouted, "Fall back!"

Rickert raised his catalyst, sent a blue bolt hurdling in the golem's direction, and spun on his heel to retreat to the next sect of tunnel, Quelana at his heels. They reached it and she took him by the sleeve to halt his footsteps. She spun to see the golem blast its way into the room with the children. The creature turned its head in their direction. The bars would slow it, but certainly not _stop _it should the thing desire to go after them, so Quelana took a step forward, jabbed two fingers back down the length of the hall, and whipped at the monster with a lash of searing red flame. The attack raked the golem's back, pulling its attention back towards Rickert and herself. It launched itself forward with a display of speed Quelana would not have thought possible of such a massive thing and stuck its arms out to crush her beneath them.

Rickert's arm wrapped her torso and pulled just as the ground underfoot exploded in a thundering wave of destruction; the golem's attack just narrowly missing her feet. Quelana got her footing, turned to give Rickert an appreciative nod of her head, and ushered them deeper down the path.

At the next widening chamber, she spotted the massive stone plating that formed a caged circle in the middle of the room's floor. Rickert stumbled to its edge first, and when he peered down inside it, he nearly fell back on his heels. "_Gods_!" He snapped. "How many monster's does Logan _have _down here!?"

Quelana moved to the edge herself. In the dim torchlight that reached the pit's bottom, the dragon/human crossbreed, Priscilla, could be seen, still locked in the chains that held her to the walls. Her head was angled back, a fall of snowy, white, hair draping her furry shoulders (though Quelana could not tell if the fur was the creature's own or simply a cloak) and her eyes were wide and carried profound anger within them beneath the horned line of her brow. A horse's bit was affixed in her mouth, but the creature's fangs could be seen protruding around the edges. They looked just as menacing as the wolf's had.

Quelana pried her eyes from the pit and looked to the far end of the room, where a wooden lever rose from the ground; a line of steel and chain cut into the earth following back to the circular prison. "Distract the golem," she told Rickert as she crossed the room.

"Distract the golem!?" Rickert echoed. "Why? What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to free her."  
"Free _that _thing!?" Rickert snapped, pointing to the hole.

"Yes," Quelana said, wrapping her hands around the lever. "If she's locked up down there, it means she is an enemy of Logan's. The golems belong to _him_, and there will be more of them soon enough."

"Ah," he replied, though his eyes were still fixed warily on the pit. "Enemy of my enemy is my friend? That sort of thing?" He looked as if he were going to say more, but the tunnel entrance at his side exploded; a shower of rock and dirt raining down around them. The golem's head burrowed through the passage as the creature burst into the chamber. Rickert backpedaled, but his heel clipped the grating of Priscilla's prison and he fell back on his ass. The golem rushed him.

Quelana cooked a fireball in her palm as fast as she could, wrenched back her arm, and hurled it across the short gap. It splashed the golem's side like a drop of liquid fire, pulling the monster's head in her direction. By then, Rickert had clambered to his feet and made his way to the rear passage. He sent an arrow of magic into the golem, and when the thing turned back to him, he waved his arms. "Well come on then! Ugly bastard. Come and get it!"

The golem charged him, and Quelana caught a look of dread on the young man's face before he disappeared into the next tunnel; the creature's feet pounding behind him in pursuit. Quelana returned her focus to the lever. She got hold of it, braced herself, and pulled. As the wooden handle slowly made its way to her chest, she saw chains and metal pieces working against each other underground. The pit's lid came sliding apart, disappearing beneath the rock, and some mechanical action took over the rest of the work. Quelana released the lever and moved to the hole just as the white tip of the crossbreed's hair came rising from within.

The woman-creature's eyes broke the surface, and Quelana saw they were emerald green, like her own, and there was a softness in them that betrayed the thing's snarling fangs and creased brow. The crossbreed rose further still, and Quelana spotted a beautiful silver and gold choker around her slender neck, inlaid with gems and crystals that sparkled in the torchlight. The cream-colored fur that covered her shoulders and chest might have once been a cloak, but it was hugging her frame so tightly, perhaps it had become part of her. Her hands were those of a simple woman's: no claws protruding from the tips; no hooves or scales. Her cloak ended in a cascade of furry layers around her pale legs. Beneath, her feet were bare and _also_ without claws. Something half-buried in the dirt shined beside them.

_She is no giant, _Quelana thought, examining the exotic creature chained before her. She'd heard her pupils talk of a beast that stood fifteen feet high, but if it those legends once held truth, they certainly did not anymore. The creature was, perhaps, seven feet; not much bigger than Black Iron Tarkus.

_A strong flame does not waver. _Quelana made herself step forward until she was nearly swallowed in the crossbreed's shadow. The woman-beast stared down at her, her emerald eyes narrowed shrewdly, her pointed fangs working at the bit that silenced her. Quelana raised her arm to allow her cloak to fall from her wrist. She commanded her flames to snap at the air between them. "I mean you no harm, creature, but I assure you I _can _harm you_. _Lower yourself to me and I'll remove that muzzle from your mouth."

Priscilla's gaze held on Quelana's hand, the thing's eyes widening with, perhaps, curiosity, before she lowered her head. Quelana reached around behind the woman, digging her hands beneath the soft layers of her hair and finding the bit's straps. She worked them loose and gently pried the bar from the creature's mouth. Priscilla's face was soft-featured, almost childlike, but an anger stole across it then that robbed it of its innocence. "That thing has kept my suffering in silence for longer than I can remember," she said, and Quelana was surprised at how soft and tender the creature's voice was. "Thou hast my gratitude, but... may I asketh of you... you are no woman, are you?"

"No," Quelana told her.

"Flames rising from flesh..." Priscilla went on, her eyes moving to Quelana's hand again. "Thou art a daughter of the Great Witch Izalith!"

"Yes."

"Gods be good!" Priscilla cheered. "I beg of thee, witch, release me from my chains! Release me so that I may set forth and destroy the great plague of Lordran!"

Quelana's brow lifted. "You know of the hollows?"

"Hollows? No, kind witch. I speak of the _humans_."

"Humans?" Quelana echoed.

Priscilla nodded. "Those that share their origins with the vile man who imprisoned me in the first place. The evil and mad sorcerer. Thou hast taken my blood... and thou hast kept me locked away in this hole for..." Her voice cracked and Quelana thought the creature might actually spill tears from its eyes. Priscilla took a breath, however, composed herself, and went on. "Release me, witch. I begeth of thee."

"Logan," Quelana said. "_Logan _did this to you. Not all humans share his madness or his cruelty."

"Yet all humans carry within them the _desire _to be just as cruel and mad."

"And there are many of those who _fight _that desire," Quelana went on. "That is what makes humans so special. They _choose_." She had thought of it much in her time in Blighttown. Her thoughts had been not dissimilar from the crossbreed's at first, but as time passed and her pupils came and went, Quelana came to reserve a place in her heart for the beings; at least the descent ones among them. "Listen to me. If I release you, you must swear to me you will not strike out against the humans I am in the company of. They are... friends."

Somewhere from the direction Rickert had led the golem, the sound of stone cracking boomed and the rock walls of the chamber shook. Priscilla craned her neck back to glance over her shoulder. When her eyes returned to Quelana's, there was anger within them once again. "Thou needeth my help. Free me and thou shall have it."

"Swear it," Quelana insisted, taking the crossbreed's shackled wrist in her hands and laying her fingers beneath the release mechanism. "Swear you will not hurt them or I'll send you back into your hole."

Priscilla's fangs chewed gently on her lip as she mulled the proposition over. "Alright, Daughter of Chaos. I swear it."

Quelana popped the manacle loose.

Rickert came barreling back into the chamber and Quelana saw he carried in his hands now only _half _the catalyst he'd left with. The young man came skidding to halt in the dirt underfoot upon glimpsing Priscilla towering over him. The crossbreed snarled at him and Rickert stumbled back.

"You swore to me," Quelana reminded her.

Priscilla took a breath to calm herself. "Thou speak it true. What would thou have me do?"

Quelana knelt, brushed her hand across the dirt floor, and uncovered the shining item beneath that had caught her attention earlier. It was the hooked and curved blade of a great scythe, the handle of which ran the entire length of the pit. Priscilla spotted it too then and reached for the weapon immediately. "He left it here..." She whispered, turning the scythe over in her hands. "Because he thought it was part of me. Thought it... would bestow him with more of my life's essence." She looked to Quelana. "Would thou have me use it?"

Quelana nodded. "There," she said, pointing to the hulking form of the crystal golem as it shouldered its way down the tunnel towards them. "Destroy that thing. It is _Logan's _creature."

"_Logan_..." Priscilla whispered, the word thick with contempt. She raised the scythe and stepped forward to block the path of the approaching monster. When it neared, the crossbreed roared: a sound that was, appropriately, both human and inhuman; a woman's shout and a dragon's growl coalescing to one, terrifying, warcry. The golem slowed, so Priscilla moved to meet it. She dashed forth, scythe raised high above her fall of snowy hair, and brought the blade down atop the monster with another roar.

Its arm fell away from its body, the scythe slicing it cleanly free. The creature had only a brief moment to look at its disfigurement: its head came off next. The chunk of crystal slapped the wall beside it, fell to the ground, and rolled to a halt near the crossbreed's feet. Its body collapsed shortly after.

"Gods..." Rickert muttered.

Priscilla spun furiously on him, scythe raised to her shoulder.

Quelana stepped between them and ignited her flame.

Priscilla's eyes fell to her's, and Quelana watched some of the hate slowly drain from them. "As thou commands," she said, lowering the scythe.

"Come," Quelana said. "There are others we must yet protect."

When they returned to the previous chamber, the children had not yet been freed from whatever spell enslaved their minds. Rhea was fallen on the floor of the cell, Anastacia at her side keeping hold of the priestess to prevent her from collapsing entirely.

"Ray!" Rickert shouted.

"She is okay," Ana told him. "Only exhausted. She has tried four different miracles. None of them had any effect on the children. She thinks-" Ana stopped speaking and her eyes drifted over Quelana's shoulders. Her mouth fell agape.

Priscilla's towering shadow fell to the floor of the cell. Quelana didn't bother turning around. "This is Priscilla. She won't harm us. Rhea, how many more miracles do you have prepared to try?"

Rhea, still too winded to speak apparently, lifted a shaky hand above her and held two fingers in the air.

"Alright. Try them as soon as you are able."

"Quelana," Rickert called to her, and when she looked, found him staring down the tunnel across from them where two _new _golems had appeared huddled together in the passage.

Quelana glanced back at Priscilla. The crossbreed nodded her comprehension, took up her scythe, and moved to block their advance. Rickert shuffled out of her way, keeping a wary eye on the edge of the scythe's blade. Her seven-foot figure filled the tunnel, and a fury tail the same cream color as her cloak lashed out behind the crossbreed as she stalked forth.

_thump - thump -thump_

Quelana looked to the other tunnel. Three more golems were lumbering down the path, shoulders dragging alongside the walls and kicking up a cloud of dirt around them.

"Why!?" Rickert shouted. "Why are they all converging on us _now_? Why here?"

"Perhaps they seek to protect Logan's machine," Quelana suggested, moving to the tunnel and preparing her flame to intercept the golems' charge.

"We're not pissing around with his damn machine, though," Rickert said, slamming his body to the wall across from her and peeking around it.

Behind them, Priscilla cried out. This time, the sound did not carry the anger and power her roar had earlier. It carried only pain. Quelana turned to see the crossbreed had slashed into one of the golems' chests, but the blade had caught halfway through and gotten stuck. The hybrid was backpedaling in retreat, twisting at the long handle of her scythe to try and wrestle it loose as the creatures moved in to swarm her.

"They're coming," Rickert said, pulling her focus back to the three creatures barreling down the tunnel at them.

Quelana cupped her hand at her waist and commanded a swirl of flame to begin cooking into a marble; one that would grow and swell until it became a great chaos fireball: her most devastating spell. The golems, perhaps sensing a moment of weakness, picked up their pace. Their footsteps were pounding the ground in such quick rhythm, it was as if the walls themselves had come alive to bury them in its belly. Behind her shoulder, she heard Priscilla cry out again as something rumbled and cracked. She held her focus on the fire in her hand, commanding it to gather heat and energy, and when the first golem neared, she swung out to the tunnel and drove her hand forward.

The attack smothered the creature in a smoldering fist of death; a vibrant pool of searing lava bubbling up beneath the thing's feet. It drummed its arms wildly into the walls at its side, but by then the lava had cooked the bottom of its legs clean away. The golem shrunk again when its knees melted. Then again as it became simply a torso, then a chest, and finally - only a head.

Then that too was lost in the pool of orange chaos.

The other golems watched the attack simmer, holding their ground cautiously.

"The lava won't last long," Quelana said. "And I can't do that again. Not for a good while."

"The dragon-woman, er, _thing _is losing ground quick," Rickert said. "She's got no weapon."

Quelana looked over her shoulder and saw he had the right of it: Priscilla was backed up nearly to the chamber again. Her eyes met Rickert's across the gap between them.

He sighed. "It's over..."

The lava residue of her spell faded into the earth. The golems pressed their attack.

Quelana closed her eyes and searched within herself. Her inner flame was still recovering from her expenditure of energy. "Open the cell," she told Rickert. "We'll make our last stand within it." He nodded, rushed across the room to the cell, and she joined him. "Priscilla!" She called to the crossbreed. "Come! Quickly!"

Priscilla leapt back on her heels as one of the golems took a swing at her. She twisted around in the tunnel-arduously, due to her size-and scurried back to join them as the golem's second attack shattered apart the wall. Rickert worked the cell door open and the three of them poured inside. He spun back, slammed it shut, and poked his arm through the bars to twist the handle and lock them in just as the four golems converged through the tunnels at either end of the room.

"I only wanted to see his face once more," Anastacia said, her eyes flicking hopelessly between the monsters that stalked forth from the darkness. "My little brother... I wanted to see the face he'd grown into." Her lip quivered and her eyes grew rheumy.

"A strong flame does not waver," Quelana told her, seating herself beside the firekeeper and taking her hand. "Say it, Anastacia. Say it now," she told her, though whether she wanted to hear the words for Ana's benefit or her own, she could not say.

"A s-strong flame..." Ana managed before breaking into a sob.

"Ray," Rickert whispered, kneeling beside the priestess and laying his hand on her shoulder. "Ray, I'm a fool for not telling you sooner." He looked to the golems, their bodies now chocked the front of the cell so thickly, the torchlight ensconced behind them was lost in a blanket of darkness. "I love you, Ray. You're far too pretty and sweet for a failed blacksmith and a half-assed sorcerer like myself, but... I love you anyway."

If the cleric heard his confession, she showed no response. Her eyes were closed and her talisman was still at her lips as she whispered a prayer in quiet determination. _Please, _Quelana could hear escape her lips every now and again. _Please._

Priscilla backed into the corner, raised her lips to reveal barred fangs, and growled like a cat trying to fend off a predator.

The golems cluttered around the cell. The one nearest to the center threw its massive arm forward and _smashed _one of the bars keeping them at bay. The iron thing bowed and bent but did not break, and so the monster swung again, and this time, the creature at its side joined in. The bar caved in further. The two golems at the ends began throwing their shoulders forward, slamming the bars repeatedly, making more and more progress towards destroying the things entirely. Two bars near the center had bowed outwards far enough for one of the things to get its arm through. It started violently thrashing its elbow back and forth, splitting them apart further and further, and growing closer and closer to clawing its way in.

Quelana mustered up enough energy to send a shot of flame at the monsters, but the attack was weak and did next to nothing to slow their assault.

"Ray!" Rickert shouted, shaking the woman's shoulder. "Don't let me die without knowing how you feel!"

"S-strong f-flames d-don't..." Anastacia croaked, swiping at her cheeks.

A bar snapped. The middle golem clambered through.

The others flooded the hole to join it.

Their shadows drowned them all, their arms lifted over their heads, they-

-froze.

Quelana's heart seemed frozen with them. Her hand was cupped into a ball, but no flame was coming. Beside her, Anastacia had an iron grip on her arm. Priscilla's growl had gone silent in her corner. Rickert was hunched protectively over Rhea, and Rhea-

"Rhea!" Quelana shouted.

A tear rolled the cleric's cheek. Her eyes were opened. A hand, small and tender not her own, reached to her face and wiped at it. A child rose to stand at eye level with her. Then another, and another, and another.

"Mom? Where's Mom?" One of them croaked.

"What's going on... Dad!?" Another joined in.

One by one, Quelana watched as all nine of them rose around the priestess like blooming flowers, and as the children rose, the golems fell.

Their massive bodies lumbered over like fallen trees atop one another, sending a row of heavy thumps back towards the bars, and when the final _thump _sounded against the earth, Quelana knew: the crystal golems were no more.

"Logan..." Quelana said, understanding dawning upon her. "He must have... must have found some way to link the children's souls to the golems'. The spell... it was keeping them comatose so he could work the creatures like puppets through the children."

Rhea's joy lined ever inch of her face as she looked from child to child. "They're okay," she said, swiping at a tear. "They're... they're _fine_!"

"Because of your miracle," Rickert pointed out. "Me? I knew you had it. Never doubted you for a second." When Rhea turned her smile on him he sighed. "Well... maybe just for _one _second there."

They cleared out. Rhea soothed the crying children with another miracle while Rickert rounded up the older, braver, ones. When the nine had been joined, Anastacia led them climbing out over the fallen golems. To Quelana's amazement, the children made a _game _of it, laughing and slapping at the dead monsters that had nearly ended them all as they climbed. Quelana followed behind them, and Priscilla came trailing along last. Rhea was readying to lead them back to her hidden path so they could join the rest of the castle in defense when Priscilla halted them.

"Would thou allow me to speak with the witch alone?" She asked.

Rickert, Rhea, and Anastacia looked to Quelana, who gave them a nod. They returned it and led the children forward, disappearing around the bend in the tunnel.

When they were alone, Priscilla lowered herself to a knee so their eyes were more evenly matched. "What is happening above?"

"War," Quelana told her. "An army of hollow soldiers march from Anor Londo. They mean to destroy us."

The crossbreed nodded. "I will not fight alongside humans," she confessed. "When I find open sky, I will flee."

"Open sky? How-"

Behind the crossbreed's shoulders, her snow hair lifted and began breaking apart. A pair of white and leathery wings spread from beneath the massive fall of fur that cloaked her back.

"Wings?" Quelana said, a feeling of awe stirring in the pit of her stomach. "You can _fly_?"

Priscilla nodded. "I can and I _am_. I have no love for humans, witch of Izalith. I despise the half of me that shares blood with them. I will leave this place."

Quelana nodded. "I... understand, I suppose. If you take these tunnels back that way, they will spill out to the gardens and the Crystal Caves beyond. You can escape without risking a single foe spotting you. I... _we _will miss having an ally as powerful as yourself, but your life is not mine to command."

"This is good, but, witch, I am not telling you this for no reason," Priscilla went on. "I have some strength left in me. I can take you with me."

"Me?" Quelana questioned. "I-"

"Have no place here," Priscilla interjected. "These are not your kind. They are _humans_. They are _savage_. And even if they count you as one amongst them now, it will not be long before they seek to destroy or enslave you, as humans do with all things they fear or do not understand."

"What did Logan do to you to set such a burning hatred in your heart for mankind?"

The crossbreed growled and lifted her arm. It was heavily bandaged and spotted with dry, red, patches. "The man took my blood. He _drank _it before me as I stood chained as his prisoner. He mixed it with his own blood, with potions, with powders. He consumed it in every way he could. And every time he did so... he made me _watch_."

Quelana grimaced. "Why would any man do such a thing?"

"The sorcerer has grown obsessed with the notion of immortality. While I was chained and silenced for countless days as his prisoner, I was forced to his mad ramblings. He would read for hours and then launch into conversations with himself. He believes he can become part dragon by consuming my blood. He seeks the dragon's immortality for himself."

"That's ridiculous."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I know he spend many hours plotting to steal my father's crystal for himself."

"Your father?" Quelana questioned.

"Most know him as Seath the Scaleless, betrayer of dragons," Priscilla explained. "He was stripped of his scales for what he did to his kind, yet even without their power, he found immortality... in the form of the Primordial Crystal. The very crystal that the mad sorcerer, Logan, now possesses."

Quelana rubbed at her cheek, mulling over the crossbreed's tale. "So with dragon's blood and the crystal in his possession... you think it may actually be _possible _he's found a way to make himself an immortal?"

"Who knows what madness lies in a man's heart," Priscilla said with a grimace. "Man is a plague. A plague that stops at nothing till it gets what it wants. Please, witch. You did me a great kindness. Come _with _me. Fly free from this place and I will take you anywhere you desire."

The swamps of Blighttown flashed before her mind's eye. When Lautrec had come and stolen her away from her home in ropes, she'd wanted nothing more in the first few days of her captivity then to return. It was safe in Blighttown. It was quiet. She knew every inch of it; _loved _every inch of it.

"Leave the humans to die," Priscilla pleaded. "They've _earned _their fate! This is the Gods' judgement upon them for their wickedness. Don't punish yourself alongside them."

"The Chosen..." Quelana said. "The Chosen Undead. She's _here_. Abby, her name is. She's young, brown hair cut short, a pretty face and pretty blue eyes. She is... a sweet thing, but... her mind has been tampered with. Still, she is a hope. Perhaps the _only _hope this world has to go on."

Priscilla did not look impressed. "What more is a Chosen then another _man _or _woman _with some fancy gift to rise from flame? They are just as cruel and greedy as the rest of their kind. Lordran does not _need _a Chosen hero. It needs to be cleansed."

Quelana squinted. "You're talking about the _end _of humanity."

"And the _beginning _of a new age in Lordran, _free _from those monsters!" Priscilla pleaded. "I'm leaving, witch. Come with me. I won't ask you again."

Quelana turned to the tunnel the others had disappeared through. She thought of Abby, but Abby was no friend of her's any longer. Whatever happened to her mind turned the girl against her. As much sadness as it brought upon her heart, it was true. She thought of Lautrec and Anastacia, but their situation was so mad and tragic, it could only end in misery for both of them. She thought of Laurentius and Tarkus and Rickert and Rhea. They had befriended her quickly enough, but they were dragon-worshipers. They'd march her off to the Great Hollow to be judged by some eternal beast below should they somehow survive the hollow's siege. She thought of Solaire and the way he'd cast lightning from his bare hand as she cast flame from her own. The knight, for whatever reason, felt important to her.

"Quelana," Priscilla's voice cut into her thoughts, and when she looked, the crossbreed had her hand extended. "Leave them to their fate. Leave them and _live_."

_The word 'leave' is so much prettier than the word 'abandon'_, she thought. _But they mean the same thing. I abandoned my sisters and my mother to the chaos that took them and I carry the regret of it every day._

She glanced back at the tunnel once more. Distantly, she could hear shouting and rumbling: the sounds of war stealing across the castle more and more with every passing moment. Those left alive would almost certainly fight and die within the keep, that much was now clear, but they would die as warriors, courageous and brave and true. There seemed to be only one question left worth asking herself: _Does your heart still hold enough love for the humans to die amongst them; as _one_ of them. Do you _believe _in them?_

She thought on it, and when she found the answer, she made her decision.


	36. Chapter 36

His arm was burned, but not so badly it could not hold a weapon. The injuries he'd sustained in his leg and shoulder back at the Burg had reawakened with a vengeance, but not so severely that he could not stand. His lungs were filled with enough smoke to send him into a fit of coughs if he pulled too deep a breath, but not enough to stop him from breathing all together. A spray of rocks had imbedded themselves in his knuckles and forearm, but he'd picked out the worst of them and the rest he could live with. His head pounded, his vision blurred at the edges, and his hearing, though it had started to recover, was muted and dull. Overall, Lautrec assessed his state of health post-explosion as 'good enough'.

"Well?" Tarkus' deep voice boomed beside him, and even the sound of _that _felt as if it were coming from some distant world, or perhaps some other life. "Can you fight or not?"

Lautrec rose from the blankets the cleric had laid him upon, wincing as his knee screamed in agony. He stuck his hand out, and when Tarkus' brow furrowed, croaked, "Give me a weapon and we'll find out."

The big man grinned. "That's what I wanted to hear." He pulled a shortsword from a bracket at his rear and laid it in Lautrec's opened palm.

Lautrec glanced to the blanket at his feet, where his shotels laid broken, bent, and useless. Only a hint of sadness took him when he realized he'd never wield the things again, then his attention was on the sword. He cut the air before him, taking note of the blades weight and balance. Tarkus made to hand him a shield, but Lautrec waved it off. "I'd rather have a second sword in my off hand."

"There's a reason men don't dual-wield swords like your shotels there," Tarkus told him, "They're too long. You'd have to rebalance your footing after every swing. What you need is a shield."

"What I _need_ is the head of the man who detonated those firebombs early and nearly ended my damn life," Lautrec corrected him. "But, I suppose, this sword and a parrying dagger will do. For now."

Tarkus frowned. "I can get you a dagger, but... you truly refuse a shield?"

"I'm a knight of Carim. We don't use shields."

"Sounds like you 'knights of Carim' have a deathwish then."

"And perhaps we do," Lautrec admitted. "But it makes our approach in battle fierce and relentless. If we _don't _die, we certainly kill anything left in our path."

"If that wall comes down like Solaire thinks it will, soon enough there will be a whole lotof _hollows_ in your path, knight. What say you to that?"

Lautec shrugged. "I say let them come." He lifted the blade and twisted it so the torchlight caught in its steel reflection. He wasn't thrilled at the prospect of fighting off an army of hollows, but it now appeared-with nowhere left to retreat to-it was them or him that would be destroyed, and if that was the case, he intended to make damn sureit was _them_. "Let them come... and they will die."

Tarkus handed him a dagger and fixed him with a steely look. "On that, knight, we agree."

The Great Hall that had been so empty and lifeless when he'd crossed it earlier with Abby in tow was now brimming with activity. What was left of the soldiers from the wall were scurrying about, taking up arms, mending broken ones, and piecing together armor from the wounded or dead for themselves. At the rear passage the big man in black armor who'd named himself 'Tarkus' had returned to funnel the last of the women and old men out to join the others in whatever hold they'd made for themselves. Beside him, a group of archers were frantically digging through a mound of quivers to fish out any arrows that could be salvaged. At the longtables that split the room in halves, men stood in lines, shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting at one another, about _what_, Lautrec did not know. A spearman with a crop of blond hair threw his arms up and marched away from the table, and Lautrec saw the other men there curse him and throw obscene gestures at his back. A group of women, led by the stout little thing Lautrec had nearly lost his life for going back to save on the wall, were huddled in the corner, casting wary glances around the hall and talking amongst themselves. The hall's sole cleric was being rushed from place to place by different men, each in turn looking to see the man's miracles soothe their friends wounds before the next.

At the wall opposite him, the Warrior of the Sun, Solaire, had regained consciousness. The knight was seated on a bench as the cleric was pulled beside him and tended to his wounds. His eyes lifted to Lautrec's own and held, squinting with, perhaps, some vague remembrance of their conversation atop the wall; the one they'd had just before Lautrec had knocked him unconscious. _Let's see just how much you remember, friend, _Lautrec thought, holding the man's stare. _And if it's too much, I suppose we'll see which of us is the better warrior._

He limped forward, shouldering past an arguing couple and giving a wide berth to the rather angry-looking men at the longtable whose eyes alsoheld on him. He made his way down the length of the hall to stand before Solaire, who had watched his approach and now rose himself.

A quiet moment passed between the two knights as they surveyed one another; only the distant rumblings of the relentless siege of hollows quaking both above and below as they stared. Lautrec broke the silence. "Tarkus says you think they're going to batter down the walls."

Solaire nodded. "That's right."

_He doesn't remember, _Lautrec thought with some sense of relief. He wasn't particularly looking forward to combating the man. "I suppose you have command here...?"

"I do," Solaire said.

"Then I must request your permission to leave."

Solaire raised a brow. "Leave? There's nowhere to leave _to_. The castle is surrounded, the entrances destroyed or buried in rubble. And we need all the capable men we have to defend this hall should the hollows break through. You look capable enough, though I'm told you sustained injuries when they detonated the firebombs." He took a breath, his eyes flicking across Lautrec's body. "And... I suppose you have my gratitude, Lautrec of Carim. Tarkus told me it was _you _who came upon me when I fell to the hollows and that... that you risked your own life to save Winnie over there."

_Saving her life was not my intention, _Lautrec thought, but held his tongue on the matter. "I ask leave not to flee the caslte, but to search it. Abby was taken by the crossbowmen, Chester. I need to find her."

"Chester?" Solaire questioned, his look darkening. "If the poor girl is back with that vile man, she is as good as lost. He knows this castle better than anyone. It's likely he's taken her and hidden the two of them away." He grimaced. "I wouldn't put it past a man like that to hide until the fighting is done with so he can come crawling out to pick through the pockets of the dead."

"It was Abby who sent me to save your life," Lautrec told him. "You owe her. Send a scouting party out to search the-"

"That I cannot do, Sir," Solaire interrupted. "My priority, _our _priority, must be to defend the Great Hall. If it falls, we all fall with it, and Abby will be lost anyway. No. Stay and fight. If we live, we'll find her."

The wooden doors that closed off the hall's side passage burst open to their left. Both Lautrec and Solaire turned to see two soldiers marching forth; in between them was the Knight of Thorns, shackled at the wrists. Kirk did not look in great shape, his mouth bloody and his eyes darkened around the rims, but there was a sardonic smirk on the knight's ugly face anyway as the soldiers thrust him forward to his knees before Solaire.

"We caught the bastard, Solaire," the younger soldier said. "Like you ordered."

"Aye," the older one added. "He was sneakin' around in the mess hall."

"Just looking for some food, friends," Kirk explained with a chuckle.

Solaire pulled a sword from the sheath at his hip, and Lautrec's brow lifted upon seeing it was Kirk's own barbed blade he held. Solaire laid it upon the man's shoulder before him and fixed Kirk with a stoic look. "Knight of Thorns, I charge you with the murder of Siegmeyer of Catarina, amongst other atrocities I've witnessed you commit, and I therefore sentence you to death."

The smirk never left Kirk's face. "Piss off, Solaire. I should have murdered _you _that night in the cave. Go 'head 'n kill me. My _ghost_ will come back to wrap your neck in barbs while you sleep and I'll piss down your throat. Ha!"

Solaire nodded, seemingly refusing to let the man's words reach his anger, and wrenched back the sword.

"Wait," Lautrec said, and both Solaire and Kirk looked to him. Kirk, perhaps noticing him for the first time, furrowed his brow. "This man killed Siegmeyer?"

"Aye," Solaire said. "I bore witness to the malicious act myself. It was unprovoked and in cold blood. He is truly a treacherous craven, this one."

Lautrec looked to Kirk. "I request this man's life," he said.

Kirk laughed. "Ha! Looks like the knight of Carim knows _talent _when he sees it! Smart man, Lautrec. Keep me around and I can kill hollow just as good as any man you've got."

"_Why _in Lordran would you wish to save this man's life?" Solaire questioned, the sword still held ominously before Kirk's throat, waiting to execute the man.

"There are few things I believe in," Lautrec explained. "One of them is vengeance. This man's life belongs to another. If we live through this madness, I'd see that vengeance is served." Both Solaire and Kirk looked uncertain of what meaning his words carried, so Lautrec went on. "You said it yourself. I saved your life on the wall. In return, I want his. For now."

Solaire narrowed his eyes shrewdly upon Lautrec, turned the look on Kirk, and finally, lowered the blade. "You'd best not make me regret this, knight of Carim."

Kirk's mirthless laughter filled the hall. "Oh, ain't this grand? I may yet get my chance to take your miserable life, Solaire." He turned on Lautrec. "And _you _have my thanks, friend."

Lautrec ignored him, looking to the soldiers at his sides instead. "Keep the shackles on him and don't let him out of your sight."

The men looked to Solaire, who nodded his acquiescence, and dragged the Knight of Thorns off to the opposite end of the hall. When they were alone again, Solaire faced Lautrec and shook his head. "I hope you know what you're doing."

_As do I. _Lautrec's eyes swept the room, holding only briefly on each pocket of soldiers and archers that remained. "This is a sorry lot left to defend the castle. Half of them bicker amongst each other, the other half look as if they've already lost. What do-"

"_Solaire!_" Tarkus' call boomed across the length of the room.

The Knight of Sunlight's eyes moved to Lautrec's, and the message housed within them was clear enough. Lautrec was to follow. He did.

Tarkus had positioned himself outside the Great Hall's main entrance, leaned against a towering slab of grey stone that made up the castle's outer wall. The big man's head was pressed to the stone, his meaty hands laid beside it, propping him up. As Lautrec and Solaire approached, he held a finger to his lips and his bushy brow lowered in focus. "I hear them," he whispered. "Come. Listen."

Lautrec moved beside him and pressed his ear to the stone as well. The three stood like that in silence, and just when Lautrec was ready to dismiss the man's claim as paranoia, he heard it: somewhere, perhaps just beyond the wall, something _pounded_, as if a giant's hands had clapped together. "What in Izalith..." he muttered.

Solaire nodded. "They mean to shatter the wall."

"Impossible," said Lautrec.

"Who knows what the hollows have with them," Tarkus corrected. "If they have beasts that can fly and drop firebombs on our heads from the skies, it is not unlikely they have something more that can smash stone to bits."

The pound_ slammed_ again, and this time, Lautrec could _feel _the castle tremble in the aftermath.

"The wall is at least two meters thick," Tarkus went on. "It won't be easy to get through, but its far from impossible."

"Praise the Sun..." Solaire muttered.

When the third slam came, bringing with it a light dusting of loosened rock from the upper corners of the wall, Lautrec's doubt had been removed. He spun on Solaire. "Set up a perimeter. This man has the right of it. ...they're coming."

Iron and leather clad soldiers marched forth through the Great Hall's wide and opened double doors once Solaire gave the command. The dejected looks Lautrec had spotted on many of their faces earlier had vanished; replaced with expressions of fear and anxiety. They came funneling out of the doors in a long stream that finally tapered off with the group of women and the archers, who still were busy packing their quivers full as they stumbled forth. Solaire moved about the room, pointing out places to fortify. He put lines of spear-wielding men in a row around the room's rear pillars and situated the archers on the raised stone that flanked them. Lautrec watched the Knight of Sunlight, nodding his approval. Solaire was making all the moves he would have made himself, had he become a general instead of... an assassin. _Ana_, he thought, his eyes scanning the room. _Where are you?_

As the pounding at the wall grew louder and more frequent, the soldiers had all been positioned; Solaire taking point with Tarkus and looking over his strategic lines of swordsmen and spearmen and archers, making final adjustments here and there, pulling a weaker archer from the front of the pack and switching him with a more seasoned one, removing a man's blunted sword to fish a sharper thing from the-now emptied-weapon bracket. As he rounded the last leg of the room, two more newcomers joined them. Lautrec felt a stab of rage in his chest upon seeing the first, a woman in white, but when his eyes found her face beneath her hood, the rage faded: it was not Anastacia. He recognized the woman as Rhea of Thorolund, a priestess in the Covenant of White, and at her side was, he believed, the blacksmith from the New Londo Ruins, Rickert of Vinheim.

The two rushed past Solaire and right up to Tarkus. The big man spun on them and a cheerful shout escaped his black iron helm as he bent to scoop the priestess up in a hug. She looked almost comical in his massive arms. Rickert grinned and clapped Tarkus on the shoulder, and the three of them began exchanging words. Lautrec's eyes drifted back to the passage they'd come from, but after a while, realized no one else was coming.

_Where are you? _He asked again. The entirety of the castle seemed gathered together now, those that were still alive, but several still went missing. Abby and Chester, Quelana, and (_laughing, crying, begging_) _her_.

Rhea's eyes found his and she narrowed them cautiously before leaning to Tarkus and whispering. Lautrec could only watch from his vantage point across the chamber as Tarkus looked his way and had his helm filled with whatever tale the priestess was spinning. Rickert took up a catalyst from his belt and kept a vigilant eye cast his way as well. After a moment, movement caught in his periphery, and Lautrec turned to see the final person enter the hall as Solaire commanded the doors shut and barred.

There was flame in the figure's hand, and for a moment, he thought it was Quelana. For whatever reason, the thought brought him hope. Then the hooded man rounded into the hall fully, and he saw it was only the pyromancer, Laurentius, as the man went and gathered himself with Tarkus and the other's in the middle of the chamber.

Lautrec looked from them to Solaire, and he found the Knight of Sunlight housed the same shrewd expression Lautrec likely wore himself. It told him that _neither _of them were part of whatever little group the four of them had. That was good, because Lautrec didn't care for the way they kept casting their eyes his way and whispering amongst each other. _If they stand between Ana and I, _he thought. _Then I'll kill them too._

It was Tarkus who approached him, breaking away from the group to lurch across the hall, and Lautrec noted the man's greatsword was unsheathed and clutched in his right hand. Lautrec tightened his grip on the sword the big man himself had supplied him with, scanning the suit of black iron armor for a weak point should he need find one. "Listen to me, knight," Tarkus' voice rumbled beneath his helm. "Whatever business you have with Anastacia of Astora, consider it through. You've done favors for us, now I'm doing one for you. You are not to go near her."

His neck. That was the place Lautrec would have to slice into. He could see the man's chin hairs poking out beneath the line of his helm. Of _course _it was the neck; it was always the neck. "I understand," he said calmly, picturing the man's blood spilling out to paint his black chest plate red. "Where is she...?"

"It's not your concern."

He nodded. "Alright. Then where's the witch of Izalith. She has powers beyond any man here. We need her should we hope to defend this castle."

Tarkus' shoulders slumped just a bit beneath his armor. "The witch... had fled. Rhea informed me they came across a winged crossbreed in the dungeons. The dragon-woman pulled Quelana aside in the tunnels and offered the witch safe passage from the castle. Rhea overheard them. The witch never came back out."

_So much for all your talk of abandonment, witch, _Lautrec thought bitterly. "A rather large loss, but one we will have to live with."

"Aye," Tarkus agreed. "But, knight... I need your word. You fight alongside us and you kill the _hollow_. Nothing, and no one, else. Swear it."

"I swear it," Lautrec told him, picturing again the way his sword would fit right under the man's chin if he tried stopping what the last fifteen years of his life had been dedicated to accomplishing. "You don't have to worry about _my _allegiance," he said, looking around the room. "It's the loyalty of the _frightened _that I'd worry about should the fight take a turn for the worse."

As if to accentuate his point, the wall beside them _rumbled _as another slam took it.

Solaire had worked his way through the crowd of soldiers to join them. He pointed at the wall as he spoke, "If they make a hole, it will be, at _first, _small. This will be the most critical time to hold them, as their numbers mean nothing in a narrow battle like that. Should the hole _widen_, however... we will be in trouble. We'll have to retreat further into the castle, fortifying what positions we can to slow them."

"To what end?" Lautrec asked. "We can only fall back so far before our asses hit stone. And then what?"

A look of despair threatened to steal across the Knight of Sunlight's face, but Solaire took a breath and lifted his chin to compose that stoic little expression he wore so proudly. "Then we give them a last fight worthy of remembrance. Praise the Sun."

The knight relayed his battle plan to the soldiers and archers standing in attention in tight clusters around the room from a raised bit of stone at the room's center. When the speech was finished, there seemed little left to be said among the men and women who now faced the crumbling wall before them with wide eyes and furrowed brows. An air came across the room that Lautrec knew well. He'd breathed it, _lived _in it, in his years of knighthood for Carim. It was the calm, quiet, moment before blood would spill and death would come and _battle _would begin. He crossed the room to find footing beside a pillar, working the stiffness from his bad knee and taking practice swings with the sword to further comprehend the balance points his feet would need learn should he wish to live through the first wave of the fight. Tarkus was pacing back and forth, like a black cloud swimming through the room, his greatsword trailing at his heel and birthing a display of sparks in its wake. The priestess, Rhea, remained close behind him, her talisman at the ready. Solaire stood, chin raised high, with a group of swordsman at his flanks. The knight, apparently, intended to lead the first charge himself. If nothing else, Lautrec had to admit the man was not lacking for courage. When a slam on the wall came so fiercely, a large slab of stone fell and shattered upon the ground, Solaire gave the command for the archers to nock their bows and stand at the ready.

The next slam sent two more chunks of stone from their homes in the wall to crumble apart.

Lautrec's fingers took on that familiar itch that signaled the birthing moments of violence.

The next slam sent a crack webbing out in a spiral around the grey slabs it took.

He pictured Ana's face, letting his hate course through his body, giving him strength, finding his courage, igniting his senses in a surge of energy.

The next slam-

-shattered the wall.

"_READY!_" Solaire's shout took the chamber; his fist held high above him.

The cold came sweeping in from the black and gaping pit that was formed around the crumbled and broken bits of stone that had once been the wall, and with the cold, the sound of a thousand hollows hissing and grumbling and grunting and _hungry _came with it. A wind swept forth from the tunnel they'd birthed, and Lautrec watched as the torchlight flickered madly, casting wild and dancing shadows upon the walls. As the flames wavered, he saw many men's courage waver with it. He looked back to the tunnel, but still no hollow came.

"_HOLD!_" Solaire commanded, taking a cautious step forward with his shield raised.

The knight had made it three more steps before a brown satchel came sliding into the room from within the tunnel. A lit fuse burned from its top.

"_DOWN!_" Solaire wailed, hurling himself back and shielding his eyes.

Lautrec had just managed to shuffle around the pillar at his back when the bag of firebombs erupted into a pillar of flame and black smoke, the sound of a dozen explosions rocketing off simultaneously threatening to deafen him once again. Someone screamed. Someone else joined the first. Then, only the sounds of the hollows could be heard as they began their assault.

Lautrec leaned out to see a cloud of red eyes coming forth from the black pit in the wall, the firebomb's smoke casting an otherworldly haze around them. At the other side of the hole, Solaire had clambered back to his feet and moved in to meet their attack. Lautrec was taken aback yet again by the man's relentless courage, and found the Knight of Sunlight's ferocity sparking something in himself. He moved out from behind the pillar and sprinted forth to flank the other side of the tunnel. Solaire's eyes met his own briefly, and the warrior nodded his appreciation. Lautrec returned it, and for the first time in a long time, he felt almost like a true knight again.

Then they were upon him.

The first hollow emerged from the smoking pit, hissing like a wild snake and screeching as it lunged at Lautrec with a dagger held high above it. Lautrec lifted his own dagger to catch the blow, parried it, and thrust the sword up beneath the hollow's chin. Its head exploded with the steel and the creature tumbled to its death. Across the gap, Solaire had caught a rain of blows from two emerging hollows with clubs atop his Sunlight Shield. He roared and shoved the attacks back, pressing in to stab a flurry of cuts towards their midsections. Four more birthed from the canal, but Black Iron Tarkus had pressed forth to meet them, wailing a ferocious warcry. Lautrec saw Rhea walking behind him, her head lowered, her eyes closed, and her lips moving in prayer. A golden glow encased Tarkus, granting him with an inhuman amount of stamina. He used it well. His massive greatsword cut through the first pack of hollows as if they were straw practice dummies, slicing and dicing at their limbs and heads until they came sailing free from their decaying bodies. Six more rushed at him from the smoke, but Tarkus brought his sword down in a two-handed, overhead, plunge, and the whole lot of them were laid flat beneath its mighty blade.

Two hollows swam out of the dark, their red eyes fixed hungrily on Lautrec, and charged him. Lautrec batted away one of their swords with his own, backpedaling to give himself some room. The second, eager for death, made to close the gap and stick him with a spear. Lautrec slashed his blade across the creature's wrist, slicing it clean from his body and felling both the hand and the weapon clutched within. The first hollow screeched and tried bashing him with his shield, but Lautrec side-stepped the blow, spun, and cut the monster's head from its shoulders. He drove the dagger in his offhand into the second's neck. When he pulled it loose, it joined the others Lautrec had killed in a lifeless pile at his feet.

Lautrec was catching his wind when a hollow snuck up on him from the smoke. He raised his sword to catch the creature's attack, but-

-it never reached him. A blue bolt of magic struck the thing in the chest. It screeched, grabbed at its wound, and collapsed to its death. Lautrec turned to see Rickert standing before a group of archers, his catalyst raised high above him.

"_FALL BACK FOR THE ARCHERS!_" Solaire wailed when the tunnel quieted enough to give them a moment of respite.

Tarkus, Lautrec, and Solaire himself cleared the hole's entrance as another rumbling of hollows began their approach. Lautrec dropped to a knee so as not to catch a poorly aimed arrow in the back and watched as the creature's began swimming out from the darkness. The first wave through, he counted eight. All eight were hissing and growling and darting their red eyes around, eager to find a living soul to take. All eight fell almost immediately as a barrage of arrows stuck them in their chests and their bellies, their throats and their heads. One was clipped in the shoulder. It spun forth towards Lautrec, who was quick to bring his dagger across the thing's throat, ending its wailing.

Another wave pressed an assault. Solaire shouted, "_LOOSE!_", and the castle chamber came alive with the sound of a dozen arrows freeing from their bows. The pointed tips sailed into the smoke and Lautrec heard screams of agony from the hollows within as they came collapsing out with shafts protruding from their bodies and faces. "_LOOSE!_" He commanded again, and the next wave of hollows were cut down the same as the previous one.

The entire wall shuddered beneath the weight of another _slam _that rocked its backside, and a downpour of loose rock came crumbling away from the foundation as the hole widened. The firebomb's smoke was beginning to clear enough for Lautrec to squint into the chasm the hollows had created, where he spotted a line of spear-wielding creatures marching forth behind a wall of shields; their red eyes poking up over the tops.

"Phalanx formation coming," he called across the gap to Solaire.

The knight nodded and turned on the archers. "_HOLD!"_

Tarkus' knuckles went white around the hilt of his greatsword. He stomped forth to the hold, Rhea's hand laid softly on the small of his back as the cleric continued casting her miracle, and beat his chest with his gauntlet. The spear-wielders within the tunnel hissed over their shields and eyed him warily, the big man's presence alone enough to slow their approach. "_Come on you craven bastards!_" He shouted. "_Come and face TARKUS!_"

The hollows held their ground, peeking out over their shields. Lautrec squinted, watching commotion stir behind the phalanx line. Something big was coming, large enough to cause a canal to open up in the sea of hollow. He heard the snorting of some great beast. "Tarkus," he said. "Get out of the way."

The big man turned to him and a hearty laugh rumbled beneath his helm. "Nonsense!"

The phalanx formation began to break apart, clearing the way for whatever came behind them.

"Get out of the way _now_!" Lautrec commanded.

But it was too late. The hollows shifted to the walls of the tunnel, clearing a path for a monstrously-sized boar to come barreling forth from the darkness. It's thick head was adorned in a steel-plated helmet, and its tusks were sharpened to fine, ivory, points atop its snout. The beast snarled and charged from the pack of hollows, and by the time Tarkus saw it coming, he had no time to maneuver out of its way. The boar lowered its head before _thrusting _it up and into the man's chest plate. Both Tarkus and Rhea behind him were flung backwards; Lautrec watching as the priestess' head slapped against Tarkus' armor. They sailed back to land hard on the stone flooring behind them, crashing with such momentum they slidbackwards into a pillar.

The boar snorted and kicked its hind legs; the beast's head swinging around the room so the beady, black, eyes resting beneath its helm could find something to charge. Lautrec had no time to to even _consider _a plan of attack against the creature: the hollows had rushed out behind it and were pressing hard on an attack. Both Solaire and himself could do nothing but meet it, leaving the rest of them to deal with the wild boar now loose in the castle.

A spearman jabbed at his stomach. Lautrec slapped the blow aside, wrapped the weapon's pole beneath the pit of his arm, and yanked the hollow forward. It stumbled right into the waiting tip of his sword. Beside him, Solaire drove a jab into the thing's back to ensure the creature's end. Lautrec shoved it aside and the two stood shoulder-to-shoulder as another wave came crashing upon them from the tunnel.

The dark chamber echoed with the clashing of swords as Lautrec parried a blow and Solaire followed up with a riposte. Two more came forth and were slashed down by a flurry of strikes from the Knight of Sunlight. Three more came and fell to _Lautrec's _blade as he ducked an attack, countered another, and cut his way into the three of their bellies, leaving gaping wounds to leak the black and tainted blood of the dead. He was rising to his feet when another group pressed in, and it was Solaire again who caught the brunt of their assault atop his shield, keeping them at bay long enough for Lautrec to rise, collect himself, and drive his sword into the creatures when they exposed an opening. The thrill of combat was granting him an exuberance he hadn't felt in, perhaps, _years. _He'd almost forgotten what it was like to stand in combat with a fellow knight at his side. It felt... good.

The hollows choking off the tunnel hissed their aggravation and slashed wildly at the gap between Lautrec, Solaire, and themselves. Over his shoulder, a scream sounded, and Lautrec turned to see the boar dashing across the length of the room, a man's leg pierced and impaled upon one of the thing's mighty tusks so that he was carried helplessly, upside down and wailing in terror. Tarkus had not yet risen, and Rickert had pulled Rhea to safety behind a pillar. He saw the pyromancer chuck a ball of fire at the mad boar, but the thing simply took the blow in its armored side, growled, and charged him.

"That creature has to be dealt with or it will destroy our rear flank," Lautrec told Solaire, keeping one eyes cast vigilantly upon the hollows that filled the tunnel before them.

"Fall back with me," Solaire told him. "And I'll set the archer's arrows upon the tunnel again so that we may put an end to the boar."

The two of them fell back on their heels in retreat. The hollows, perhaps sensing a moment of weakness, rushed to close the gap between them. Lautrec swatted away an attack with the flat side of his sword. Solaire raised his shield to stop a hail of strikes from falling upon his chest. They worked their way back like that, fighting and clawing for every inch, and when the wall fell away on their sides, they spun out of the tunnel and Solaire wailed, "_LOOSE!_"

The hollows were taken by a barrage of arrows just as they came bursting into the chamber. One arrow, quite poorly shot, clipped the wall right beside Lautrec's head. He craned his neck back and narrow his eyes angrily on the young man who'd fired it, who immediately put up his hands in apology.

When the path had grown so thick with the corpses of the fallen, Solaire gestured him to follow as the Knight of Sunlight spun back to face the boar. The creature was still running rampant around the room, burrowing its tusks into whatever soft flesh it could find. The man whose leg had been pierced earlier had come free, but the wound the beast had left gaping in his leg oozed blood, and it was likely if he survived the encounter, he'd lose the leg. Tarkus had worked himself up to a knee, but the big man still looked shaken. Solaire rushed past him, sword held at the ready, and drove a jab into the boar's plated side as it thundered past in pursuit of an older man in heavy leathers. The attack caught the beast's attention, pulled the black pits of its eyes Solaire's way, and the beast's hooved feet worked at the stone underfoot to spin it around and face the knight.

Solaire bravely held his ground, but when he noticed the archers around him were watching _him _and not the tunnels, he pointed his sword back towards the wall. "_KEEP LOOSING! THE TUNNEL! LOOSE!_" He bellowed, and the command seemed to snap the archers from their daze. They returned fire on the tunnel just as a dozen hollow came rushing out.

The boar snorted a contemptuous blast of air from its gaping nostrils, hooves clawing at the ground, and sprinted forward. Solaire feigned a roll to his left, dug his heel into the ground, and leapt right instead. The boar swerved to adjust to the knight's dodge, but it was not agile enough to reach him. It rumbled past, snorting and thrashing its plated head about wildly in frustration.

When it rounded back on Solaire, Lautrec stuck two fingers between his lips and sent a shrill whistle piercing out a taunt at the beast. It's black eyes found him, and the creature adjusted its path to rush Lautrec instead. He feigned left, as Solaire had, but when he saw the beast's approach not take the bait, he actually _did _dive left. The boar's tusk narrowly missed clipping his thigh as he rolled out of the way.

"Solaire!" A young woman shouted down from the raised bit of stone at the back of the chamber. "We're running out of arrows!"

"Fire til your stock is depleted," Solaire shouted back. "Then... take up arms and do what you can to stop the hollows from gaining further ground."

The woman's face wrinkled with lines of concern, but she nodded anyway.

The boar returned, driving its warpath across the hall so ferociously, its tusk took the edge of a pillar and sent a spray of rock exploding outwards. Lautrec angled the tip of his sword at the beast's snout, challenging it to charge him. The boar dropped its head and made to thrust its tusks into his chest. Lautrec did not roll out of the way. Instead, he dropped to his back and laid flat on the ground. The beast went sailing right over him, and when it was lined up just right, he thrust his dagger up and into the creature's exposed belly. A trail of blood came loose and the creature roared its agony as it rumbled past him. Lautrec clambered to his feet to see Solaire attempting to dive out of the monster's warpath. He was too late. A tusk collided with his shield.

The Knight of Sunlight went spiraling backwards, and Kirk's barbed sword went sailing from his hand. He caught himself on hands and knees and wrestled to his feet, but when he stood, he stood _unarmed, _and the boar had already rounded on him to charge again, blood leaking from its wounded abdomen.

Lautrec moved forward, shouted for the knight's attention, and when Solaire looked, he tossed him his blade. The knight caught it, spun back on the boar, and sidestepped just as the beast made to take his side with a tusk. Solaire slashed at the creature, the blade sending sparks raining as it ran the length of the plate armor guarding its side. The boar halted, turned on him, and jabbed with a tusk. Lautrec rushed behind it and raised his hand. Solaire's eyes caught his own and the knight tossed him back the sword. Lautrec _plunged _the tip into the exposed hind legs of the boar. When the boar turned to _him_, he tossed the blade back over the creature's body to Solaire, who repeated the attack on the creature's backside.

They did this once more, and when at last Lautrec pulled the bloody blade from the boar's hind quarters, the beast groaned a death rattle, stumbled sideways, and collapsed; its plating slamming the floor with such force, it burrowed into the stone beneath in a crater.

"_Solaire!_" Someone cried.

Both the knight and Lautrec himself turned on the tunnel, where a dozen hollows had breached the entrance-the archer's arrows apparently depleted-and were spreading out to assault the nearby soldiers. Lautrec rushed forward, only the smallest hint of a voice in the back of his head asking '_Why?_', and went to work battling the hollows back into the tunnel before their numbers grew too thick to manage. Solaire fell in beside him, the barbed sword back in his hand, and they fought once more side-by-side against the onslaught of the dead.

The chamber filled with the sounds of swords clashing against swords and swords thundering against shields and screams of pain and screams of anger. The soldiers were doing their best to contain the hollows to a tight pack at the tunnel's mouth, but not every one of them was trained well enough to handle more than a one-on-one fight, and Lautrec saw, with a stealing sense of hopelessness, that the hollows were gaining ground, opening the way for the dozens that filled the tunnel behind them to come spilling forth.

His focus momentarily broken, a hollow managed to parry a rather languid strike of his sword, and Lautrec's balance was thrown off. The hollow pressed on him, thundering its shield into his side and sending him tumbling to the stone. He lifted his head to see Solaire losing ground to a pack of three hollows at his side before returning his eyes to his own attacker. Its sword struck out at him and he manged to get his own weapon up just in time to swat the attack away. Four more cluttered around the hollow and fixed their red eyes upon him hungrily, hissing and snapping their rotten teeth at the air between them. He made to stand, but an attack came and all he could do was lie back down and block at it with his sword. They closed in on further. To either of his sides, Lautrec could see out of his periphery every last man around him was being pushed further back, and the hollows were widening their little pocket outside the tunnel more and more aggressively. He tried to stand again, but yet another strike forced him to remain where he was so he could block it. _The castle is lost, _he realized, watching the hollows cloud his vision like a blanket of death eager to fall upon his life.

Fire came then. At first, the shock of the flames searing forth into the pack of hollows came so sudden and _hot_, that Lautrec believed another pack of firebombs had been detonated. When his eyes adjusted to the intense and burning light of the flame, though, he saw it was far too controlled to be a firebomb. It was focused, like a burning arrow loosed from Izalith itself, and its target were the hollows. The flames bathed every inch of them in its fury, searing apart their armor and clothing, sending a symphony of tortured and tormented screams from the hollow's mouths.

The creatures fell back to escape the fiery death that was taking them, retreating back to the tunnel, stumbling over the smoldering black corpses of their fallen brethren as they went. Lautrec watched as their pocket collapsed and the soldiers, finding a surge of confidence, pressed inwards to hasten their retreat.

Quelana came marching right past his shoulder, the witch's robes rolled to her elbows and her hands joined at the wrists to spray forth the attack that had very well saved all of their lives. The witch's hood had fallen from her head, and Lautrec saw a fierce determination burning in her emerald green eyes that was filled with just as much fire as her palms. She walked the hollows backwards, commanding her flames to funnel them back into the tunnel, and when they had, she sent one last, massive, wave of fire after them. Their screams from the darkness within was enough to let Lautrec know the witch had bought them a moment of respite.

He clambered to his feet, and when he got there, Quelana was standing before him, her eyes narrowed intensely on his own. Lautrec stood holding her gaze, his breath returning to him in jagged pulls.

"I've saved your life twice now," she said, breaking the silence between them. "You owe me."

He nodded. "Fair enough, witch... fair enough."

"Don't kill her," Quelana said.

"Kill her? Kill..." He snapped his head back to the arched passages of the Great Hall.

Anastacia stood beneath them.

His vision filled with fire. He saw the charred corpses of his parents in their bed. He saw his whole life shattered and thrown away because of a young girl's vile tongue. He saw Ana; saw her motionless corpse and deadened eyes after his hands has squeezed the life from them. Hate wrapped his lungs, his chest, his entire body. He bolted forward.

"No!" Quelana pleaded behind him.

He barely heard her; barely heard _anything _then. As he neared the woman who'd shattered his life, he saw tears falling down her treacherous face and wanted nothing more than to plunge his dagger between her eyes and stop their flow forever. He'd nearly reached her when Tarkus sprung up between them and took hold of his arm.

"_ANA!_" Lautrec roared, and there was so much fury in his voice, he could feel his throat strain beneath its weight.

Quelana joined Tarkus on his other side and the two of them held him back.

_Focus, _he pleaded with himself. _Focus and you can break free. _He tried, but his vision was narrowed into a single, red, tunnel that ended on his sister's face. He could only thrash against the witch and Tarkus as they struggled to restrain him.

"_Please!_" Quelana pleaded.

"Oh, Gods no," an archer muttered beside them, the young man's face frozen in horror as he stared towards the tunnel.

Both Quelana and Tarkus turned to look, but kept their grip on Lautrec's arms.

"What is that thing?" Quelana asked.

"A silver knight," Tarkus said. "Bigger than any I've ever seen..."

Lautrec took a brief moment, doing everything he could to suppress the screams of his burning parents in his head, to glance over his shoulder. One of Anor Londo's Silver Knights had came lumbering out of the tunnel. The thing towered over the room at at least seven and a half feet tall. The slits of its helm swept the area around it and the knight pulled a long, silver, sword from its sheath; the burning hollows at its feet providing enough light to cast a shine in the blade's reflection. Solaire stood before the silver warrior, but the man looked like a mere _play _thing in the knight's massive shadow. He raised his shield, but when the silver sword struck out at it, it thundered against the round surface with such force, it was thrown clean from Solaire's hand. He backpedaled, raising his sword in defense.

"I have to help him," Tarkus said. His helm turned on Lautrec, desperate, perhaps, for some way to knock him unconscious, but when Solaire shouted a warcry, the big man released him and went running off with his greatsword in hand.

Quelana shifted herself in front of Lautrec and put her hands up. "Please listen to me!"

"Get out of my way," Lautrec hissed; it was taking every bit of his strength not to just plunge his sword into her belly right there and then. "You saved my life. I don't want to cut you down. I _will, _though. So move."

Quelana opened her mouth, likely to protest against him, but movement overhead caught both their attention. Lautrec looked skyward to see the strangest sight he'd ever seen. A woman... _thing _came flying into the room from the passage leading towards the gardens. She was bigger than any woman he'd ever seen, perhaps almost as big as the silver knight, and wings and a tail were protruding form her furry body. Her hair was wild and as pure white as snowfall; it sailed around her in tangles as her wings carried her through the air. When the archers-horrified expressions locked upon their faces-aimed their bows skyward, Quelana shouted for them not to loose, and, perhaps because it was _her _who had saved them all, they listened.

The winged woman landed beside them, towering at least a head above the tallest man, and setting her soft green eyes upon Quelana.

"Priscilla... what are you _doing _here?" Quelana asked. "I thought... I thought you would not stand beside humans."

"I do not come for their sake," the woman said, her voice gentle and childlike. "I come for _yours_ and the kindness you did me by freeing me. You spoke of a Chosen Undead whom which your hopes lied with. A young girl? Brown hair cut short? When I was readying to flee from the gardens... I believe I _found _her, kind witch. She was lying atop a dead man in the snows outside."

Priscilla lowered herself to a knee, and it was then that Lautrec saw she had been carrying something over her shoulder that looked so small in the sky, he'd barely noticed it. The woman-creature wrapped the bundle gently in her arms and lowered it to the floor beside them. When the blanket fell away, Abby's lifeless face rolled out from within.

"Abby!" Quelana shouted, dropping to a knee and cupping her hands around the girl's chin.

Lautrec stared upon her over the witch's shoulder. There was no blood left in Abby's cheeks, giving her a pale, ghastly, appearance. She did not appear to be breathing. He lifted his gaze back to the arched passage of the Great Hall. Ana was no longer in it.

"Where is she!?" He demanded of the soldiers and archers gathered around them. "One of you bastards answer me or I'll cut every last one of you down. _WHERE IS ANASTACIA!?_"

"Someone start building a bonfire!" Quelana pleaded, and when no one moved, she raised a hand and sent a spray of fire into the air. "Build a bonfire _NOW!_"

The attack was enough to send a group of them into action, Rickert, Rhea, and Laurentius, among them. They scrambled into the Great Hall and began carrying broken bits of wood and crumbled stone into the chamber to lay in a circle.

"Where is she..." Lautrec continued, his eyes searching desperately for the throat of the woman he had to murder. "_WHERE!?_"

"Please," Quelana went on, watching as the bonfire was assembled beside them. "Lautrec, _please_! Your sister is the _last _firekeeper in Lordran! If she dies, any chance that Abby could be resurrected dies with her! Can't you see that? Are you so blind by your hatred that you aren't aware you'd be throwing away the Chosen's _life_!?"

"She's _dead_!" He shouted at her, pointing to Abby's lifeless face. "Look at her, witch! She's not even _breathing_! It's over! And I... I _have_ to finish this!"

"She might yet still cling to life! She might still have a _chance!_" Quelana begged, but the witch did not carry any confidence in her voice, and Lautrec thought she might spill tears if she'd tried speaking any further.

Back towards the tunnels, Solaire and Tarkus were locked in battle with the silver knight, but despite their numbers, the massive thing was _winning_, pressing its relentless attack and easily batting away Tarkus' blows with its shield.

"Help them!" Rhea shouted to him as she laid a stone to complete the bonfire. "Help them fight that thing you coward of a man!"

Lautrec ignored her. His eyes scanned the growing crowd again.

"Lady Quelana," Rhea said. "It is complete."

Quelana lifted her gaze from Abby, to Rhea, and finally, to Lautrec. He stared down at her, nodding. "Go ahead, witch. To complete the bonfire you need a firekeeper. Call to her. Call to that vile creature so that I may finally make right what has been wrong for an _eternity_!"

"Please," Quelana begged. "Give her a _chance _to talk to you."

"She has no tongue."

"She does now. Let her light the fire. Let Abby have a _chance_. You talked so much when we first met each other about 'breaking cycles' and how important that was to you. Well break _this _cycle, knight! Break this mad pursuit of vengeance and let your sister _live_!"

"No," he told her bluntly. "Now call to her."

Quelana pressed her lips together, holding his stare with quiet desperation. When she, apparently, knew no other option remained to her, she turned and said, "Ana. Come here."

Anastacia came walking meekly out from within the Great Hall. Her eyes landed on Lautrec and she took a breath as if she'd forgotten how.

"Light the fire, Ana," Quelana hurried her on. "Light it _now_."

Lautrec shoved Rickert, who had made his wave between them, aside and marched forth, flashes of red and black clawing at the edges of his vision once again.

Ana pried her eyes from him, ran to a nearby ensconced torch, and chucked it into the center of the firepit, where the wood within began taking flame immediately. Quelana broke a splinter of wood loose and laid it in Abby's blood-drenched and motionless hand.

Another man came between them and Lautrec's fist drove into his throat, choking his air and collapsing him to his knees - and out of the way.

Ana's lip trembled. She backed up right into the wall behind her and pressed flat to it, her eyes wideneing on Lautrec's own and her breath coming in queer, sharp, intervals in her shaking chest. Her knees buckled. _Laughing, crying, begging, _Lautrec thought as his shadow loomed over her. _We had been laughing that very morning away at the ponds and when we departed I did not see your face again until it was drenched in tears-as it is now-crying over our parent's corpses. When I denied you your precious 'forgiveness' you had begged, Ana. Oh, you had begged. _His arms shook with rage as his hand clawed forth and reached for her neck. _You had begged for the death you deserve. And now I will give it you and set right a _lifetime _of suffering. For the both of us._

"B-brother..." she croaked as his left hand reached forth and found her throat.

He squeezed.

And stopped.

Something happened then. Something so strange and foreign and miraculous, Lautrec's breath froze in his chest and his mouth fell agape. His hand would not squeeze. The throat it was wrapped around no longer belonged to the woman who'd ruined his life, but to the _girl _he'd skipped stones with at Carim's ponds. Her tears weren't rivers of sorrow, but trails of love. His anger fled from him, as if all the years of hate and rage and obsession had been wiped clean away, and only the boy who'd loved his sister remained. He pulled a breath that trembled in his throat and felt tears of his own take his cheek. Ana swallowed, her eyes flicking between his own, and a hint of a smile began taking her lips.

"...Lautrec?" She whispered, reaching up to stroke his cheek. "I see you."

He could not speak, could not think, could barely _hear_. His hand fell from her throat and she stepped closer to him. "How, Ana," he asked, a swirl of emotion so thick in his chest he felt ready to collapse. "How is this possible?" His mind was a blank slate upon which the moment was being written so quickly, he could not stop to comprehend it.

Tears rolled from his sister's eyes. They held upon him before moving slowly to his side. Lautrec's head followed their trail.

Abby was beside him, alive, the color returned to her complexion. She was smiling. He looked down and saw his hand was cupped in her own. She was rubbing her fingers softly against his skin and sending a warmth that traveled from his palm, through his arm, and into his very soul. "I told you," she whispered. "I'd stop you from hurting your sister. I told you I'd set you free."

She'd calmed him. Her... _gift_. It had calmed him, stolen the anger right out of his body. Lautrec looked back to his sister's face and laughed the strangest laugh he'd ever heard. He reached his free hand to her chin and a smile came to his face that felt so foreign upon his cheeks, he hardly recognized the feeling. Ana leaned forward and kissed the bridge of his nose.

"Lautrec... my little brother," she said. "I see you in there. I _see _you. The cold knight you became hasn't replaced you entirely. I see my baby brother. Lautrec... I'm so sorry." She broke into a sob.

"_FALL BACK!_" Solaire's shout broke the bizarre, dream-like, trance he'd been drifting in. Lautrec turned to see the Knight of Sunlight helping Tarkus backpedal from the silver knight before them; a massive stream of hollows pouring out from the tunnel at the knight's rear. Tarkus' side was wounded, the big man trailing a line of blood as they stumbled away.

Lautrec turned back to his sister. His mouth opened to speak, but no words were ready to come. A strange feeling draped over him then that was not quite peace and not quite anger. He turned and saw Abby had released him. Without her gift, the hate was still there, bubbling beneath the surface, but something _else _had joined it. Some... _compassion_ for the woman he'd set out to kill fifteen years earlier and now could not bring himself to lay a hand upon.

"Ana... you have to get away from me," he said, the red fires stealing into the corner's of his eyes once again.

His sister nodded, her eyes flicked fearfully between his own, and released his face.

"Go. _Now_," he told her, lowering his head to his hand in attempt to blot the rage from returning.

"_FALL BACK!_" Solaire's voice came again, closer.

"Where, Solaire!?" Rhea pleaded.

"_Logan's prison tower!" _He answered. "_It is the last hold of the castle we can defend! MOVE!_"

Lautrec stood still in the crowd of motion around him like a useless twig protruding from a river stream. He felt a listless depression threatening to send him to his knees.

Then Quelana was at his side, taking up his arm and Abby-somehow still _living_-fell in at his other side, and the two of them walked him forward.

Lautrec allowed himself to be led, stumbling out of the room and dropping his head to his chest to watch his feet, making sure the numb things did not catch together and trip him. _What now? _The thought raced through his head and despite his best efforts, could not be shaken. He wasn't even entirely sure what it _meant_ but it raced, round and round and round. Like a circle; like a _cycle_.

_What now? What now? What now?_

Behind them, the hollows were close in pursuit.


	37. Chapter 37

As the sun clawed its way over the distant peaks of the Eastern lands, the path winding from Anor Londo to the Duke's Archives came aglow in dawn's first light; the blizzard Ben had watched twisting the skies into a chaotic swirl of ice and snow from Sen's Fortress growing far more prominent up close, and cold enough to leave frosting on his bearded chin. His eyes narrowed into the storm, and within he found the huddled-together masses of the hollow army. They marched forward, like a river of dirty water flowing into the cliffs beneath the Archives, and their red eyes flitted wildly around them, sending a thousand crimson fireflies to swarm in the snows.

"You okay, kid?"

He turned to see Patches kicking a path towards him through the thick snows underfoot. Ben had collapsed, a pain wringing up through his chest unlike any he'd ever felt and buckling his knees almost instantly, and because he had opted to scout ahead of the rest of them and take point, he was alone when it happened. "Fine," he said, rising to his feet and dusting snow from his breeches.

"Take a spill?" Patches questioned, stepping beside him and helping sweep his cloak and armor free of the ice that would numb the skin underneath if left to linger. "Best to watch your footing carefully up here. A wrong step could lead to a _big _fall," he said, peaking over the stone barrier that guarded a severe drop to the city streets below.

"She's alive," Ben told him.

If it had been any of the others, they would have looked at him as if he spoke nonsense. Patches knew, though. He'd told the man everything Lautrec had told _him-_about the witch's theory that he and Abby were linked through some special connection birthed from their joint escape from the Asylum-and so, Patches only nodded.

"She must have been so close, Patches" Ben went on, turning to face the cliffs of the Archives once again. The fires still burned atop the wall, spitting their venomous black smoke into the pale skies above. "So _close _to death that she nearly blinked right out of existence. And then they brought her back." His gloved hand curled into a fist until the leather squeaked around his knuckles. "Of _course _they brought her back. She is their savior, after all."

Snow crunched at their rear, and both he and Patches turned to see Sieglinde and the others working their way down the curve of the steps to join them. When Patches turned to face Ben again, his patented grin had risen up the side of his cheek. "So the girl lives. So _what_? Ben... if her _near _death was enough to awaken your little 'gift'," he said, patting Ben on the arm and looking to his hands, a glint taking the Hyena's eyes,"Imagine what _power _you might have had if she truly had died?"

"It doesn't matter. I just told you," Ben snapped. "They _saved_ her. She's not dead."

"No, she's not," Patches admitted. His gaze drifted to the Archive's, and as his eyes held on the fires that burned there, his grin fell away and a sullen, cold, look replaced it. "Not _yet_."

"Not yet...?" Ben repeated, and when Patches looked back to him, the hyena was grinning once again.

"Just a thought, kid," he said, tightening his belt and moving forward to descend the stairs. "Just a thought..."

As Patches headed off, the others came climbing down behind Ben. "Aye Siwmae!" Domhnall shouted as his boot slipped beneath him and the merchant nearly collapsed to the snows until Sieglinde's long arm reached out to steady him. "Aye, my thanks kind lady," he told her with a bow.

"Damned mad plan," Andre muttered as he stomped his way forth behind them. The blacksmith was clad only in a wolfskin cloak that he-more times than Ben cared for-told them he'd caught and skinned himself. Beneath, the smith's muscles tenses and bulged with every step, and more than once, Ben saw Sieglinde's eyes move to them and widen. He smirked as Sieg past him, and the woman's hand slapped playfully at his shoulder.

Vince came clambering forward next, but Ben was quick to avert his eyes. He didn't like looking at the profound expression of sorrow that now seemed a permanent fixture upon the man's chubby face. It was Ben himself who'd _put _that expression there, and though he hadn't intended to take Nico's life, he would not apologize for the accident. It didn't mean he had to _like _what he'd done, though.

Pharis had the rear guard. Her vibrant red hair came wobbling over the crest of the steps in its pigtails, her cap resting between them now adorned with a layer of snow, but when she spotted Ben watching her, she halted. "What 'r _you _lookin' at?"

In truth, Ben found himself looking at the woman more and more often as the days past since his capture, perhaps with the same interest in his eyes that Sieglinde's housed when she looked upon Andre. He wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe it was because she was the only thing around to look _at_, save Sieglinde, but Sieg had felt more like a sister to him than anything else, and Pharis was... well, loud and somewhat annoying, but she was easy enough on the eyes and was curved in all the right places. "I'm fairly sure I'm looking at you," he told her.

"Yeah? _Why_?"

He shrugged. "I was just wondering that myself."

The woman narrowed her eyes on him shrewdly, and after a moment's debate, reached around her, pulled loose her black bow, and nocked it with an arrow. She took aim at Ben, her elbow lifting to pull the bowstring taught to its apex. "Think your special little 'power' can reach me all the way up here before I put a shaft between your eyes?"

He shook his head, unstirred by her threat. "I doubt it."

She watched him, a cautious, if not somewhat confused, look in her eye, and when she'd, apparently, had her fill of standing in the freezing snows, tucked the bow away with a sigh and moved forward to pass him. He stood his ground, watching her come, and when she moved within striking distance, he thrust his hand forward as if to grab her. She yelped and jolted away from him to join the others. Ben watched her go with a grin. _She fears me, _he thought, moving to join them. _Fears the death I carry in my touch. _As he trudged through the snows behind his party to reach Anor Londo's great wall, he reflected on that notion, and, in the end, decided it wasn't such a terrible thing to be feared.

At the base of the stairs, they gathered in a tight circle, the snows coming down so heavy around them, it layered the tops of their cloaks and hid the toes of their boots almost immediately. Andre pressed himself to the edge of the wall at their flank and leaned out for a peek; his mane of grey hair swinging in wild tangles as he did. When he returned to them, his face had grown a few new wrinkles around the eyes. "This is madness."

"Can't be as mad as waiting around for the hollows to come march on _us _now can it?" Patches retorted.

"They've got a bloody army out there!" Andre growled. "Yer out of yer damned mind if you think we're going to be able to cut our way through it."

"We won't have to," Ben piped up, and the whole circle turned towards him. He had leaned out where Andre had and spotted what he'd seen in his dream the previous night. "You just have to get me close enough to _that."_

They joined him and followed the path of his extended finger. The hollow army had reached its end and the rear guard was now slowly taking up the tail of the river of dead to close the gap on the Archives. The hollows there were more loosely packed together, less disciplined, and in the center of their ranks, hoisted atop the shoulders of four silver knights, a wooden carriage swayed along in the middle of the brown sea, its sides draped in gold-embroidered silk. As the snows fell softly around it, Ben could see the silhouette of a seven-pointed crown shifting about within. It was the man (or, perhaps, _woman_) from his dream. When he turned back to the others, they were staring ahead with pensive looks upon their faces.

"Who are they carrying in that thing?" Sieglinde broke the silence.

"I don't know," Ben admitted. "But I believe he or she is leading the hollows. I saw it in my dream."

"I ain't _keen _on risking my life at the whim of some boy's _dream_, young fella," Andre said.

"He is no boy," Patches snapped. "He is the Chosen Undead. The merchant from Zena there knows it to be true and _I _bore witness to his rebirth from the flames myself. You'd be wise to watch your tongue around him, smith. Might be some day you'll be kneeling before him."

Andre's face darkened, and Ben knew immediately that Patches had gone too far. He stepped between them with his arms raised. "Look, what does any of this matter? We've all come this far, haven't we? Would you really turn back now with our goal so close?"

"_Your _goal, boy," Andre corrected. "Not mine. Mine was to see this hollow army for myself and get an idea of what I might be up against should a fight come my way. Well I've seen it. And I ain't lookin' ta messin' with it if it ain't lookin' ta mess with me!"

_Boy_, Ben thought, his fist tightening again. He pictured blood leaking from Andre's nose as it had from Nico's when Ben had set his anger upon him, and wondered how easy it would be to just reach across the gap between them and send his hate into the blacksmith the same way. The rest of them wouldn't question him then. They'd respect him; listen to him... _fear _him.

"Andre," Sieglinde began, laying a placating hand on the smith's chest. "Benjamin is right. We've come so far. Don't forget about the _children _that still remain in the castle! If Ben even has the slightest chance to stop the Archives from falling... the risk _must _be worth it. Isn't it?"

The blacksmith groaned and ran a thick hand through his mane of hair. "Eh... Aye. I s'ppose it might be. But-"

"And don't forget about my father," Sieglinde went on. "He might yet still live, and if he does..." Her next breath came queerly short and she had to hold a hand to her mouth til the moment passed. When it had, she forced a wan smile upon the smith. "If he lives, I would very much like to look upon his face... once again."

"Alright, Sieg," Andre said, taking her in his muscled arm and stroking at her hair with a surprising tenderness. "Alright now."

Domhnall moved beside Ben to stand in the knee-high snows, his arms folded across his chest, his horned helm now caked with ice atop his head. He stared forth to the carriage drumming his fingers along his arms. "That little lectica they've got isn't particularly well defended," he told them. "But there's enough hollow to stop any idea of some mad dash of attack. And then there's those knights... Aye Siwmae. Wouldn't want to face one of _them _in combat, no sir."

Patches pulled his dagger from his belt and held it to Ben. "Piss on the knights," he snapped. "We get Ben close enough and he runs in and plants this in that crowned bastard's forehead. War's over."

Ben waved off the blade. "No. I don't think I'll need it. Maybe I can end this... another way. Perhaps reasonwith him, er, her, or _whatever_ it is."

Patches held Ben's eyes only a moment before nodding and returning the dagger to its sheath. "You're the boss, kid."

Pharis, who had, uncharacteristically, been holding her tongue, finally piped up from her position just outside the circle. "Me and my black bow will keep them hollows and knights away from you," she said, and when Ben turned to her, she instinctively took a step away from him. "Y-you just... do your little trick and be done with it."

"His little _trick_?" Domhnall questioned with a soft chuckle.

"She don't know what she's sayin'," Patches quickly interjected, casting a dark glance on Pharis before facing Dom. "He's the Chosen. He don't need no 'trick'. Do ya, Ben?"

"No," he answered, sending Pharis the same look Patches had given her. The bald man had made it clear how bad things might go if the others were to learn of the 'gift' he'd discovered when he killed Nico. Patches had whispered in his ear as they walked side-by-side from Sen's Fortress. He told Ben they'd outcast him, they'd look at Abby with her sweet, innocent, little power to calm others and _Ben _with his power of death, and they'd paint him as the villain for it - maybe even go so far as to _murder _him. Patches told him it was for the best if only the three of them knew, at least until the rest of Lordran was _ready _for a hero that was willing to do what it took to save them, and so, Ben had held his tongue. He could only hope Pharis would wisen up and do the same.

"Well, we ain't gettin' any warmerstandin' out here with our asses to the wind," Andre growled. "I s'ppose we'd best head out there and start this mad plot of yours, boy. I'll take point, stay at my side," the smith told him, fishing a matching pair of caestus gauntlets from a pouch at his hip and sliding his bony knuckles within. He pounded them together, sending a metallic _ring _echoing off the wall at their side. "If I'm going to die out there for you, you'd _better _make it worth it."

"Don't talk like that, Andre," Sieglinde scolded the smith before turning on Ben. "We believe in you, Benjamin." Her bastard sword came rising up from her back's holster, the hilt gripped tightly in a two-handed pull.

Patches thumped the butt of his spear against the snow underfoot and grinned. "No time like the present. Let's go end a war, aye?"

Pharis nocked her bow as Domhnall pulled a crystal straight sword from its sheath beside her. They nodded their readiness.

Ben's eyes found Vince, standing dumbly in the snows behind them, his expression as empty and listless as his stare. Andre elbowed the large man's gut and his focus returned to the group. "Huh? Oh... yes. I suppose. I am... er, ready."

Andre gave them each a nod of his head in turn, pulled a deep breath, and spit the warmed air out before his face in a foggy stream, giving him the impression of some great dragon breathing flame. He rounded the corner, and the rest of them followed.

Less than a hundred yards separated their group from the tail-end of the hollow army, and Andre led them across it as quickly as the heavy snow underfoot would allow. Ben was thin, agile, and soon enough he began to outpace the others, but Andre's baleful growl slowed him til the smith could catch up. The blizzard that raged above the Archives was far more tame along Anor Londo's wall, but the snows came thickly enough to blur their vision, and by the time they'd made it in striking distance of Pharis' black bow, Ben lifted his gaze to see the stragglers at the rear of the army had turned on their approach; red eyes staring hungrily forth in the blizzard as they neared. He heard Pharis grunt with exertion behind him, and the next moment, a shaft was sailing over Ben's head. It took one of the hollows right between its crimson eyes, dropping and killing the creature instantly. Those clustered around it looked from the group to their fallen brethren and back. Their mouths gaped into black pits and hateful hisses erupted from within. The sound caught the attention of those grouped around them, and a cascade of hollows spun back to face them. Another of Pharis' arrows fell a creature, and that was apparently all the hollows were willing to stand.

They charged.

"Don't let 'em jump on ya!" Andre barked, lifting his arm to halt their progress and taking up a defensive stance. "Cut down the ones before us! Leave the ones that try 'n get the flank! Cut a path to that carriage! _Look out!_"

A hollow's spear launched from its hand. The weapon sailed through the blizzard, slicing through falling snows in a blur, and had Ben not stepped to his side, would have planted itself in his chest. He turned to face the attacker, but two sword-wielding hollows had already closed the gap between them. Ben reached for Nico's crescent axe at his hip. He'd gotten it halfway unsheathed when the hollows leapt for him.

Andre roared and the smith's gauntlet-clad fists found one of the creature's heads. The muscles on his back tensed as Andre took hold of the thing by the neck, held it to the snows below, and pounded its skull. The other was in mid-flight when Patches stepped forward and caught its belly with his spear. The glow of the creature's eyes dimmed and it slumped onto the weapon, dead. Ben turned and Patches gave him a nod.

"_Argh!_" Sieglinde bellowed a warcry as she stepped between Andre and Ben with her bastard sword wrenched back over her shoulder. Three hollows had emerged from the blizzard before them, and as they scrambled into striking distance, Sieglinde unleashed a slash that hacked the first near clean in half and sent the other two back in retreat. Domhnall joined beside the broad-shouldered woman, covering her flank as a fourth creature crawled up from the snow itself to try and plant her with a dagger. The merchant took up a funny stance, perhaps one more commonly seen in his homeland of Zena, and swatted the hollows attack aside. He pressed in on his front foot and cut the creature back until it lost its footing. His crystal sword took it in the neck.

Pharis launched a series of arrows into the skies in quick succession. The hollows that were still working their way back from the army's rearguard were caught beneath the shafts as they fell alongside the blizzard in a storm of death. One broke free unscathed and raised its sword over its head to lunge for them. Ben had retrieved the weapon of the man he'd killed from its sheath, and Nico's axe swung easily enough before him to halt the creature's attack. The second swing found the hollow's neck. Its head rolled from its shoulder to plant itself in the snow.

"_Andre!_" Sieglinde shouted, and Ben looked to see the woman pointing around their left side, where a rogue group of hollows had broken off from the assault and moved up their flank.

"_Forward! Press forward!_" Andre commanded, and the smith's thick legs began kicking at the snows before them to cut a trench into the army's core.

Ben and the rest of them moved to join him as a second pack of hollows split off to their opposite flank. _If we're slowed down now, we die, _Ben thought, and was surprised that the idea did not frighten him. In fact, it seemed to only make him feel more alive. He lifted Nico's axe and hacked down a hollow as it rushed him, roaring a warcry over the fallen thing as it died. He raised his line of sight to the carriage swaying heavily atop the silver knight's shoulders. It was still a good way deeper into the army, and, in fact, he didn't think they'd even noticed a commotion stirring yet. He shouted as another hollow came and Ben brought his axe up to deflect a jab of the creature's spear. Ben was moving in for the kill when Pharis sent an arrow into its head instead.

They pressed forth. As they neared the carriage, closing the gap more and more with every arduous step into the blizzard they took, the hollows on both of their flanks now pressed in as well. They'd sealed off the path Andre had cut them from the stairs, and now Ben and those he'd promised wouldn't have to die were entirely encased: the army ahead; the hollows at their sides and rear. He stole a glance towards the wall behind them and saw Pharis turned around and backpedaling beside Domhnall, launching arrow after arrow at the hollows in attempt to stave them away from choking off the path. If she, perhaps, had another archer or two beside her, it might have been successful. She did not, though, and her arrows were slowy losing the battle for the path.

Andre fists came together around a hollow's head; a spew of black blood leaking from the creature's punctured cheeks as it slid to the smith's knees in defeat. Andre kicked it out of the way and looked to the carriage. "_We're still too damned far!_" He shouted, his mane flying around him as he surveyed the flanking hollows. "_Gods save us now! Just keep fighting forward!_"

"_Ben_!" Domhnall yelled. Ben turned just in time to see four hollows had broken free from his left flank and were charging him with spears and sword drawn. Pharis fell one with an arrow, and both Domhnall himself and Sieglinde closed off the path with drawn weapons at their waists long enough for Patches to come up between them and jab his spear out at the hollow's throats and faces.

Ben heard a hiss over his shoulder that sent a chill along his spin. He spun with axe raised to catch a hollow's leaping sword slash. The weapons clashed, he metal _clanged, _and a rain of sparks seared his cheek, but Ben managed to work the blade aside, wrench his axe back up, and plunge the pointed backside into the hollow's chest.

The flanking hollows moved in tighter, forming a fist of soldiers that was quickly closing its hand around them. Pharis shouted, and Ben turned to see the hollows at their backside had not only closed off any chance of retreat, but had worked their way close enough to begin taking swings at the red-headed woman behind them. Domhnall tumbled into his side as a hollow's sword danced with the merchant's own. Ben shouldered around them, but a new wave of hollow was already pressing from the side and he had no room to maneuver.

Sieglinde's bastard sword hacked down a rushing attacker. Andre pounded another into the snow and crushed its skull beneath his boot. Domhnall sent a parry and riposte into the hollow he was tangled with. Patches jabbed the tip of his spear into a creature's foot, pinning it in place long enough for him to unsheath his dagger and slice its throat. All around Ben, his group was winning the battles, but the _war _was already lost. That much was now clear to him. The flanks had grown too tightly packed with soldiers, and Ben, Andre, and the others could not gain any ground forward while under constant attack. Their backside was cluttered with red eyes, and if the hollows had the sense to all strike in at once, their group would be smothered in a blanket of swords and spears. And every one of them would die.

Patches, perhaps coming to the realization himself, moved beside Ben, catching his breath and sending wide-eyed glances all around them. "This part of your _dream_, kid? What in Izalith are we supposed to do now?"

Beside them, Andre fended off a flurry of strikes, but he could see the smith beginning to tire and slow, and it would only be a matter of time before he halted all together and was lost. Ben's eyes moved from the smith to the carriage ahead, that still swayed above the silver knights thirty yards away. He tossed Nico's axe to the snows and cupped his gloved hands around his mouth, craned back his neck, and bellowed, "_Hey! HEY! Back here! HEY!_"

"The hell 'r you doin', boy!?" Andre snapped.

"_Back here!_" Ben shouted, ignoring him.

"Andre..." Sieglinde said. "We're in trouble."

The hollows had finally coordinated their attack. They gave up on sending packs of twos and threes forth to be cut down and had lined themselves in a long, twisted, formation that wrapped around Ben and the others like a coil of rope waiting to cut the air from a hanged man's neck. Their beady red eyes floated up over their shields and they hissed and snapped at the falling snows before them. They began to tighten in.

"Aye Siwmae," Domhnall muttered, his mop of auburn hair tumbling about as his head snapped in every direction to watch the attack press in on them. "This is bad, my friends."

"_Bad_!?" Pharis' shrill voice sounded behind them. "We're done! _He _led us to our deaths!" She said, pointing towards Ben.

"_HEY!_" Ben went on shouting.

The hollows closed around them tighter. And tighter. And _tighter_.

Sieglinde hacked down the jab of a hollow's spear over its shield. Her back pressed into Ben's shoulder in retreat, nearly knocking him into the approaching hollows on the other side.

"Nico... perhaps I'm coming to see you sooner than I'd thought," Vince said, his heavy cheeks red and damp with perhaps sweat or perhaps tears.

The hollows moved in so closely around them, the group was pinned back-to-back.

"_Damn you!_" Ben roared at the carriage. "_I'm the Chosen! Do you hear me!? I'M THE CHOSEN UNDEAD! STOP!_"

And just like that: they did.

The hollows halted, quieting down and fixing their glowing red eyes on the group, their rotten breath poisoning the air around them. The march of the silver knight's ended, and Ben squinted into the snows to see a hand had protruded from within the silk drapes that covered the carriage. It was finely manicured and adorned with silver and gold rings on every fingers, most inlaid with gems or jewels, and the fingers were extended, as if asking for a moment's respite.

The circle he stood in had grown so quiet, Ben could hear the heavy breaths of the group around him as they stared forth to the carriage as well. A moment of such heavy silence passed, he felt as if his breath were being sucked right from his chest in its oppressive quietness, then the manicured hand drew back within the silk drapes and the hollows lined between Ben and the silver knight's parted; birthing a chasm in the midst of the brown sea that worked its way right up to the carriage itself.

"Gods..." Andre muttered. "What's happening?"

"It heard me," Ben said, swallowing and refusing the stir of fear that was threatening to rise up into his chest access. He turned to Patches, but even _Patches _looked uncertain.

The silver knights' heads were turned back, the dark slits of their helms fixed upon Ben himself. They were waiting.

"I'll be back," Ben told them, and then there was nothing left to do but walk, and so he walked.

_This is the dream, _he thought, his eyes flicking from hollow to hollow as the things watched his passing. _The man/woman in the carriage. The hollows allowing me passage. Abby's warning in the darkness. 'Up to me'. It was true. Every bit of it was true. _The realization sent a wave of courage through him, and Ben suddenly found his feet moving with greater ease. He was the Chosen, the _true _Chosen, and his fears quelled with every step towards his goal; towards his _fate_.

When he reached the carriage, the silver knight at his side standing so tall, its massive shadow completely encompassed him beneath it, Ben turned back once more to glimpse the group that had taken him there. Every one of their eyes were fixed forward upon him, their expressions a matching palette of fear and wonder. He swallowed the last bit of his fear, lifted his boot to the carriage's railing, and climbed up to push beneath the silk drapes.

A rush of sweet perfume filled his nose as Ben worked his way onto the cushioned bedding of the carriage. All around him, the drapes were thin enough to let in dim light, but heavy enough to obscure the figures of the hollows and knights around it into vague shapes. At the head of the bedding, the man-and Ben could see now it _was _truly a man, despite his appearance-was resting back against a mound of purple and silver pillows. The seven-pointed crown was adorned upon his brow, like a star exploding outwards from his head, and a veil draped from its front to conceal his face. Ben squinted, and could make out finely plucked eyebrows and painted lips beneath, but a _man's _jawline and nose. The strange figure was dressed in a silk robe, not entirely unlike the draping of the carriage, and his pale legs were poking out the ends of a dress and clad in silver sandals with pink and yellow flowers tucked into the straps.

"You're not her," the man spoke, his veil dancing above his lips as his breath trickled along its underside, and Ben was not surprised to hear his voice was soft and as sweet as the perfume he wore.

_Abby, _he thought, a familiar anger rising in his chest. _He thought I was Abby. _"No. I'm not her."

"And yet," the man went on, "you wear an aura of importance around you. I can see it. Smell it. _Feel _it." The man's head cocked to the side and his ring-adorned hand stroked at his chest. "So who, or what, are you?"

"My name is Benjamin," he explained. "I am the true Chosen Undead, reborn from the flames upon my rescue from the Undead Asylum. You are right. I am _not _Abby, because Abby is a fraud and not the one you should be marching to retrieve." He took a breath, the words he'd spoken felt so _right _coming from his lips, his cheeks grew numb with excitement. "_I_ am the one you and your army have sought out. _I _am the Chosen Undead. And _I _can give you anything _she _could have. So tell me. What is it that you _want_?"

The crowned and veiled man stared at Ben then for a long time without speaking; his fingers dancing along his chest as his tongue ran the length of his upper lip. A smile rose up his painted mouth. "You tell it true," he spoke the words as if he were in awe of them. "I see it now. You _are _a Chosen one."

"_The _Chosen one," Ben corrected him.

A girlish giggle sounded beneath the man's veil. "Hmmm, perhaps so."

"Now tell me. What do you _want _with me?"

"My name is Gwyndolin," the man answered. "I am the daughter of Lord of Cinder and Keeper of Kiln, Gwyn. My father is dying, and the world around us dies with him. I, and the army I lead, only wish to see the Chosen face against him. And stop Lordran from fading to darkness."

"You _want_ me to kill Gwyn?" Ben asked.

"If you are the one true Chosen?" Gwyndolin questioned. "Yes. My father needs to die at the hands of the Chosen Undead so that the great bonfire in the Kiln of the First Flame can be restored, and Lordran can be saved. And so that myself, the hollows, and every man, woman, and child that still clings to life can go on living."

"And if that _doesn't _happen?"

The man whimpered and brought his slender fingers to his painted lips. "Oh, it would be a terrible thing. It is happening all around us right now as we speak, but it will grow far, far, worse. The world would fall into a great and endless spiral of cold and darkness that no living creature but the dragon's could survive. Lordran would return to them then, bringing about a second age of darkness in which the eternal dragons will reign once more for, perhaps, an eternity."

Ben nodded, refusing to let the image of a black world reigned over by dragons in the skies give birth to the fear that he'd managed to suppress so far. Instead, he changed topics. "You are human... and yet the hollows obey you?"

"The hollows are, in a way, just as alive as you or I young man, and no living thing wants to end. A change has befallen Lordran, perhaps as a last means of salvaging this prosperous age of fire we live in, and with the change came many strange occurrences. The hollows arriving upon my doorstep to await my orders was one such occurrence. _Two _Chosen Undead... that, I believe, is another."

"One," Ben corrected. "_Me._"

"Hmmm..." Gwyndolin hummed, his long-lashed eyes flicking across Ben's features. "You will come willingly to the Kiln?"

"I know now it is my _destiny _to save Lordran," Ben told him. "I am its hero, and I will do what I must to fulfill that fate."

"Ah, but simply facing off against my father isn't enough to save Lordran. You are a man, and a man must _choose_. It is that free will that bestows within us a power not even the mighty dragons can wield. The power of choice. To see Lordran prosper into a new era of flame... or to stand as its ruler in a world of darkness."

Ben frowned. "I don't understand. You said if the Chosen _didn't _go to Gwyn, the darkness would come and destroy Lordran."

"It is different. Lordran will _end _without my father being replaced. If the Chosen faces and kills him and chooses _not _to relight the flame, Lordran will not end. It will only _change_. It will darken. But it _will _live on."

"With the Chosen Undead as its ruler..." Ben finished, his eyes falling to his gloved hands. He curled them into fists and thought of the way Pharis had looked upon him with such fear in her eyes after he'd put his death into Nico. He wondered if being a ruler meant _all _men and women would hold such looks in their eyes when they gazed upon him.

"The internal conflict that lies within a man's heart will decide the fate of the new Lordran once my father is through," Gwyndolin admitted. "But either way, he _must _be dealt with. Before it is too late."

"Call them off," Ben said. "Your hollow army. The Archives mean nothing to you now. You have me."

Gwyndolin's head cocked further on its side. "And what if _you _aren't the Chosen Undead Lordran needs as its leader into the new world?"

Ben lifted his eyes to the man's own and held them. A flash of anger took his chest. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"If there are truly _two _of you," Gwyndolin began. "Then only _one _will do what is right and the other? Well, I would rather not even think on it. No. I need you both, that much is clear to me now. I will take you as my prisoner to the Kiln, and I _will _retrieve this girl from the Archives who has so defiantly refused me. The humans within that defend her must die for their sins. _All _men must pay for their sins." The man's face, for the first time, darkened a bit. "Even my father's precious firstborn."

Ben didn't know what the man meant by that, but he was growing far too angry to even care. Here was another man telling him he wasn't good enough. Another man whose hopes rested with _Abby _and not him. Another man who didn't believe in him, didn't respect him, didn't _fear_ him. He wanted Gwyndolin to fear him. He wanted it so badly, his arms trembled. He steadied himself and came to a realization. "You command the hollow?" Ben asked, forcing his voice to remain calm.

"I do."

Ben nodded. "Then you are a powerful leader... and I submit myself to you. I will do anything you ask of me in order to aid your capture of Abby so that you may take us to the Kiln." He bowed his head.

"And you are a wise boy for doing so," Gwyndolin cooed, returning the bow. "Perhaps your wisdom is what Lordran will need in its new age once we settle things with my father."

Ben's air felt hot in his nose; his skin was burning beneath his gloves. He lifted his head and forced a smile anyway. "To celebrate Lordran's first allegiance between the glorious Gwyndolin, commander of hollows, and myself, a Chosen Undead," he began, reaching to his hand and plucking the glove away from it. "A shake of hands?"

Ben extended his bare hand across the gap between them.

Gwyndolin's painted lips spread into a smile beneath his veil. "Sweet thing you are," he cooed, daintily extending his own manicured hand, limp at the wrist, so that Ben may take it.

And Ben did.

And Ben _squeezed_.

And a few moments later, as Gwyndolin's head rocked back and forth in violent spasms and the blood raced from his nose in great crimson streams, Ben grinned.


	38. Chapter 38

**Author's Note:** _Right from the start, let me warn you all this is a BIG chapter, and also the last one for a little while. I have built several story arcs to their conclusion within, and I figure this is as good a place as any to throw in a little 'intermission' until the next chunk of story. Think of it like a 'Part 2' (though, I'm not saying I've got another 200k words to go or anything, its just a good place to split the story up). I feel it would be disingenuous to make you all go hunt down some whole new story in the Dark Souls section just to continue on, so the second 'part' will just go on as Chapter 39 when I get to it. If some of you were saying to yourselves, 'Geeze, is he gonna end this damned giant thing already? I'm sick of that Mary Sue of an Abby and her friend's hijinks!' Well, this chapter is about as close as your going to get to a conclusion for quite some time. I've got a bit more story to tell before the credits roll on Solaire and the gang, so if you want out? Now is the time to do it. If not, I will see you all in Chapter 39. When I get there (shouldn't be too long). In the meantime, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the first 200k words of this massive tale I'm telling. Judging by the numbers that come in every week, there are quite a lot of you still reading along, but you're a pretty quiet bunch (with a few notable exceptions, of course). Either way, thanks for coming this far. 38 chapters, 200k words, and roughly 16-24 hours later (based on average reading speeds) we've worked our way to this point. _

_Like it or not: we are in this together._

* * *

When the last of the men and women were through, ducking and scrambling and crawling forth in a mad dash beneath the arched tunnel that wound its way back to Logan's prison tower, Quelana's eyes found Solaire's across the passageway's gap between them. The Knight of Sunlight nodded, and Quelana went to work birthing a burning circle of fire in the palm of her hand. As the attack cooked, she held vigil over the hall before them, where, distantly, the sounds of the approaching hollows were climbing a crescendo as they neared. By the time the first of them came scrambling around the corner, their mouths gaping and hissing, their swords and spears thrust above their heads so that they took on the appearance of a great brown wave of water crashing down the length of the hall, the Great Chaos Fireball was ready. Quelana launched it, but did not bother sticking around to watch the aftermath: the creature's screams were confirmation enough that they had burned.

"The lava will melt the feet of those who attempt to cross it," she told Solaire as the two of them rushed the length of the Archives' outer balcony, careful to maintain footing atop the ice-caked stone. "But it won't last forever."

"Very good, Lady Quelana," Solaire said. "You have bought us valuable time and you have my sincere gratitude."

They came to the end of the balcony, where the path twisted around a curve and hooked beneath two massive, iron, doors. Beyond, Logan's mad tower spiraled down into the earth in a twist of stone stairs and crumbling brick. Atop a raised platform that housed the tower's sole ladder, a group had halted, though whether to wait for Solaire and herself or simply because the ladder had become too cluttered to move any faster, Quelana did not know. Tarkus was leaned against the barrier there, his shaggy fall of hair swaying above the steep fall to the tower's base, and his face scrunched up in agony. His meaty hands had a hold on his side, where blood oozed through his fingers from the wound the silver knight's sword had left him with. "_Rhea_!" He growled. "Gods, where is that bloody cleric when you need her!?"

Both Rhea and Rickert were at the other end of the platform, aiding the last of the men and women forth, guiding their feet and hands safely to the ladder's rungs. Upon Tarkus' shout, the priestess rose and scrambled around a passing group of children at the hem of their mother's skirt. The mother helped her little ones onto the ladder as Rhea moved to Tarkus' side and pried his hands from the wound. "It's too deep, Tarkus. I can sooth it for now, but I'll need to stitch it shut to stop the bleeding."

"Piss on stitches, just make me forget the pain long enough so I can get back to crushing those hollowed bastards back to Izalith," he told her. His eyes flicked to Quelana. "No offense, witch."

"You _can't_ Tarkus!" Rhea went on, holding an authoritative finger to his face. "You'll lose too much blood if you don't keep pressure on the wound! Now, here, hold this bandage to your side and _don't _let it go!"

The sight of Rhea, almost comically small beside Tarkus, giving the big man orders was an odd one. However, when the priestess turned her stern look on him, Tarkus groaned, but gave his acquiescence anyway. He took a heavy cloth from the cleric, pushed it to his side, and allowed Rhea to lead him to the ladder to begin his descent.

Quelana's gaze moved to the side of the platform where both Lautrec and Abby were seated against the barrier. The knight, who had dragged Quelana herself into this whole mess so long ago, was staring at his own boots, a queer, vacant, expression on his face that he'd been wearing since his encounter with Anastacia, who-_Thank the Gods for it, _Quelana thought-had already joined the majority of the castle below in the tower. Quelana did not want to think what might transpire between the two if they were enclosed in such tight proximity to one another atop the platform. Part of her was glad to see the man calm, the anger and rage and _madness _that had gripped him just moments earlier outside the Great Hall all but gone now, but another part of her wished some of that fire would return to him so that he might stand and aid them. Lautrec, if nothing else, was a fierce knight and a sharp mind, but at the moment, he fit neither of those descriptions.

Abby noticed Quelana staring, and rose to meet her eyeline. Something in the _girl _had changed, too, and when Abby's eyes found her own, Quelana could not find any of the innocence and optimism that once flourished so vibrantly within. The girl's brow was drawn in a sharp line to the bridge of her nose as she approached, and for one mad moment, Quelana thought she meant to strike her. Instead, Abby extended her arms, wrapped them around Quelana's waist, and hugged. Quelana opened her mouth, but found no words worth saying, so closed it and hugged Abby back instead.

"I made many mistakes," Abby said, keeping a hold on her. "And you still worked to save my life. If you'll accept it, Quelana, you have my apology. I'm... I am sorry."

"You don't ever have to apologize to me, Abby," Quelana said. "It was Logan and Chester who warped your mind. You were only their victim. As was I."

"You're kind to me even now," Abby said, finally pulling herself back so she could look upon Quelana. She smiled, but the expression never quite reached that hard look in her eyes. "I won't make anymore mistakes. I promise you that. If you would, somehow, let me earn back your trust..."

"Abby," Quelana began with a shake of her head. "At your worst, you said many cruel things to me. But one thing you said that was _true, _and even I didn't realize it at the time, was that I looked at you as one of my sisters. I did then. I do _now_. You already _have _my trust."

Abby nodded, and her smile took on a bit more sincerity. "Thank you, Quelana." Her eyes fell to Lautrec beside them, still seated on the floor, still blankly staring ahead at nothing. "I don't know if he's alright. I'm not sure if I did the right thing by stopping him anymore."

"An innocent woman lives because of what you did," Quealan told her. "It was the right thing to do. Just... stay with him and try to keep him safe until... well, until whatever is going on inside him ends. And try to steer clear of Anastacia."

Abby nodded. "Alright. Yes. You're still as wise as the day I met you, Quelana, and I'm happy that you are here at our side." She squeezed Quelana's arm appreciatively, turned, and took Lautrec by the arm. The knight looked to her as if he hadn't even realized there was anyone else around him, but when she tugged at him, he allowed himself to be guided to his feet, and then to the ladder without a word of protest.

When they disappeared beneath the platform's edge, only Quelana and Solaire remained. She moved nearer to the knight and pressed to the archway across him that led to the balcony. He looked to her and pulled a deep breath. "They come," he said, sliding his sword from its sheath and spinning out to block the narrow hall before them. "Go on, Lady Quelana. Join the others. You have served us far greater than I could have ever hoped of an ally. I will hold this passage til the last breath leaves my lungs to buy you all more time. Praise the Sun."

"You're coming with me," Quelana told him; it wasn't a question.

He smiled wanly at her. "No, my lady. My place is here."

She shook her head as she looked upon him. The knight stood tall and powerful-looking in his armor, the polished surface glinting against the torchlight, and his eyes did not hold even the slightest bit of fear beneath his crop of dirty blond hair, but the man was just that-a man-and he couldn't possibly hope to hold off an army_. Even _with _his gift of lightning, _Quelana thought. "Why, Solaire? Why do you carry such a death wish? Since we met in the Darkroot Gardens, you've spoken of sacrificing yourself. _Why_? You are a good knight and a _better _man. You're life is far more valuable to those around you than your death could ever be!"

"You are kind to say so, my lady," he said. "But I have _always _known my life would end in sacrifice. I've known since perhaps even my birth. I believe everything happens for a reason, Lady Quelana, and all things beneath the mighty Sun have a purpose. _My_ purpose is to die for the better good. It isn't something I look forward to, but... it is my _fate_."

"Then _defy _your fate!" Quelana shouted.

The sound of a hundred hollows began swelling from the balcony. The creatures had made it past her lava, and now their aggression had only seemed to grow more tenacious, their rage more _relentless, _as they neared.

"Leave me now, my lady," Solaire told her, shifting his feet into a defensive stance and raising his sword before him. "Perhaps we shall meet in the next life."

_There are few things more stubborn than a knight with his honor intact, _Lautrec had said to her at Domhnall's the second night they'd stayed there. The saying held true. Quelana held her frustrated gaze on the man, and after a moment's debate, realized what she'd need do. She stepped up beside him and raised her arms so the cloak around them fell to her elbows.

Solaire turned on her, frowning. "What are you doing?"

"Our fates are interwoven," Quelana said. "If yours is to die here, so is mine."

"No. Lady Quelana, the people _need _you!"

She faced him. "Oh? Why?"

He shook his head with incredulity. _"Why? _My lady! Your strength! Your ability! Your... your _courage_! They need leadership down there!"

"You're right," she agreed. "They do."

She extended her hand to him. Solaire's eyes moved from her, to her hand, and back. Slowly, the understanding rose upon his face. He gave a slow nod of his head. "...alright, my lady. Alright."

Together, they fled to the ladder and descended to join the fleeing crowd below just as the first cluster of hollows came swarming around the bend of the balcony. The spiraling twist of stairs that wrapped the tower's outer wall were, for the most part, cleared at the upper levels, but a bit further ahead, Quelana could see the lower levels were still brimming with people attempting to flee, their endeavor growing more arduous with every passing moment as the last stragglers joined the tail end to pack the stairs shoulder-to-shoulder. She was amazed-able now to look upon those that had not yet fallen to the hollow at the base of the tower-at just how many there were.

As she sprinted forth, Solaire at her side, Quelana stole a glance back to the ladder, where the red eyes of the hollows peered back at her from its top. One was shoved, likely unintentionally, forward, and had barely the time to unleash a hiss from its mouth before it crashed head-first to the stairs below and went silent. The creatures looked frustrated by the lack of easy passage, and more and more began crowding the platform's top, angrily shoving their way forward and raising their weapons overhead. The ladder would slow them, but not for long. Quelana returned her attention to her fleeing feet and picked up the pace.

When they'd made it as far as they could, the last of the refugees blocking further passage at the bottom of the stairs, Quelana moved to the barrier at her left and leaned out to survey the tower's base. Instantly, she saw what had slowed their progress.

A crowd had formed at the foot of Logan's mad machine, clogging up the stairs as the men and women stared wide-eyed and dumbstruck upwards at it. Though Quelana knew how foolish they were to birth a bottleneck in the path of escape, she could hardly blame them for the rapt attention they held upon the massive tower of spinning parts in the room's center. When she'd last seen it, it had been moving and spinning with a ferocious velocity, but now the thing had picked up pace even _more _and the bars and metal bits that flew around it in a circle were moving at such breakneck speeds, the pieces were fading into one, massive and swirling, ball. The bronze bar that had wrapped the machine's outer core had become a glowing circle that shone golden flashes of reflected torchlight around the thing in tight intervals. It hummed and rumbled, like the hungry belly of some ancient beast, and the wind the machine spewed from its momentum was enough to send the women's hair and dresses near its base into a frenzied dance around their heads and legs.

"_Keep moving!_" Solaire shouted down to them when he joined at Quelana's side. "_Keep the crowd moving!_" When Rickert hopped up on a bit of raised stone and began waving his arms and shouting to guide the crowd forward, it seemed to help start a fire under their feet. Solaire fixed Quelana with an apprehensive look. "My lady... that machine..."

"I don't know what it does," Quelana answered preemptively. "I know Logan had his golems working on it, and when last I came through this way, it had already been turned on. By whom, I do not know."

He nodded, the machine's golden flashes painting his face as he looked upon the thing. "Let us hope it does not explode. The way it wobbles... it doesn't look very stable, does it?"

"No, I suppose not," Quelana admitted, but _her _attention was elsewhere. At the top of the stairs, the hollows had began descending lengths of thick rope from the raised bit of platform, sliding down in packs at a much quicker pace than the ladder would have afforded them. She searched within herself for her inner flame, and felt it was not quite ready to birth another Great Chaos Fireball. _A strong flame does not waver, _she thought as the first of the hollows broke into a mad sprint around the twisting stairs.

"_Move!_" Solaire commanded again when he saw the hollows approaching.

The knight's shouting combined with Rickert-and now the pyromancer Laurentius, too, had joined the sorcerer in guiding the crowd-was enough to begin slowly clearing out the foot of the stairs. Quelana and Solaire fell in line at the very end of the refugees, taking up defensive positions as the hollows came flooding down upon them. A scream behind her caught Quelana's attention. She turned to see a group near the twin pillars that lead into the barred section of the tower ducking and cowering as Priscilla came flying out from the tunnels. Every eye fell to the winged crossbreed as she soared overhead, spotted Quelana, and flew to the barrier beside her to perch on its edge.

"Kind witch," Priscilla began, catching her breath. "I scouted the gardens as you requested. There is no escape that way. Humongous, legged, shellfish have come lumbering up from the depths of the Crystal Caves. They choke the exit off. I barely made the return journey myself."

"But you _did _return," Quelana told her. "And for that you have my gratitude." Her eyes moved to the approaching hollow, then to the refugees now filing in beneath the passage to the last room left they could defend, and finally returning to the crossbreed's own. "Priscilla, listen to me. There is a good chance we might all die here. If the fight takes a turn for the worse... you take Abby and you do everything you can do see her away from this castle. Do you understand that?"

Priscilla nodded.

"Do that and you will have repaid the debt of me freeing you beyond my wildest hopes."

"I will do what I can... for _you_, not the humans," the crossbreed said, spread her wings, and soared back down to the lower levels; the wind of Logan's machine sending her snowy white hair into a blizzard around her head.

"_Quelana!_" Solaire shouted.

She spun back to see the hollows rounding the last bend of stairs, their weapons raised and ready to strike. She lifted a hand to command a Great Chaos Fireball, not entirely sure she even had the strength to, and stepped forth til she was between the hollows and the men and women behind her. Solaire sidled past her and cut down the two who'd taken point in a flurry of jabs. When the work was done, he glanced to Quelana's hand, saw the ball of death that had grown there, and hurried out of the way of her path. Quelana launched the attack as high up the stairs as she could. It splashed at the feet of the next group of hollows, melting away their lower halves almost instantly in a flash of fiery red chaos, and spreading a pool of lava to choke off the pursuit of those behind them.

She fell to a knee, her head spinning and her knees buckling.

"My lady," Solaire called, rushing beside her and laying a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm okay," she assured him. "I just... need to rest a moment." She wiped sweat from her brow that felt as cold as ice water on the back of her wrist. "My inner flame needs time to rise again. If I can just-" She made to stand, but her legs buckles again, and if Solaire hadn't been beside her to take hold of her waist, Quelana might have collapsed to the floor entirely.

"You need to lie down," the Knight of Sunlight told her, and Quelana was in no position to argue with him. She nodded.

Solaire scooped her into his arms and rushed to the bottom of the stairs just as the last of the men and women there were clearing out. The knight shuffled past the stragglers, carried Quelana to the wall beside the far pillar, and lowered her to the floor. He stood, wrenching his head back the way they came, and when he saw her fire spell had afforded him a moment's respite, the knight began making the rounds of the tower, ordering the women and children into the next room, and commanding the able-bodied men to take up any arms they could find. Quelana watched him, pulling deep breaths to catch her wind, and remaining as still as possible so as to better recover from her exertion.

Atop the stairs and beyond her lava pool, the hollows red eyes glared hatefully down upon those they wished to slaughter. Logan's machine went on spinning its mad dance in the tower's center, and the flashes of gold seemed only to rile the creatures anger further and further every time it painted its light upon their faces

"Witch," a voice called from her side.

Quelana turned to see the Knight of Thorns resting against the wall a bit further along the tower's curve. His ankles were in fetters, his wrists in manacles, and when he saw her looking at them, he shook them to rattle against one another. "Got me all locked up they do," he told her, a grin rising up his cheek despite his circumstances. "But I can fight. Aye, you know that. Saw me on the bridge that day I nearly bested the knight of Carim. Get me out of these things, witch, and I'll fight for 'em. Yeah. I'll fight _good_."

A grimace took her face as she held the man's eyes. The last time she'd looked into those black pits of his, he was attempting to rape her. "You can die in your chains you vile creature," she hissed. "These men don't need your help."

His grin fell away immediately, a dark look swimming up to take its place. "...fire bitch," he growled, and when Quelana did not bother replying to the insult, he narrowed his eyes more shrewdly upon her and the grin slowly returned. "You know, witch, I never did tell you about where I was _before _all this cold madness took Lordran."

"Hold your tongue or I'll fetch someone to _gag _you too," she told him, trying to keep calm so that her flames would return to her as quickly as possible.

"I worked for your sister you know," he went on anyway, and at the word 'sister', Quelana snapped her head in his direction. Kirk chuckled. "Ah, there's some interest, ey? It's true. I was a Chaos Servant to your sister, Quelaan, though I only ever knew to call her 'The Fair Lady'. Pretty thing she was... like _you. _Yes_._.. I used to run all over Lordran slaughtering men and women for her... collecting their precious humanity so that I may feed it to her insatiable flames." His eyes flicked to the ceiling, as if in remembrance, before falling back to Quelana's own. "The _last _soul she sent me to capture? Why, it was _yours, _witch!"

"You lie," Quelana snapped.

"Oh, no, this time I tell it true. She didn't want me to kill you, though. I imagine that would have been too good a death for the sister who _abandoned _her family. No, she wanted you _alive_. Said... said she had a 'gift' for you." He laughed again. "Oh, if only Lordran hadn't gone and started collapsing in on itself. You would have made a fine trophy to my master."

"You... you hold your tongue! That cannot be true!" Quelana roared. _Can it?_ A voice questioned inside her. She hadn't seen any of her sisters since fleeing Izalith. She had no idea what they thought of her, in truth.

Kirk's laughter went on, louder. "She probably wanted you tortured. Ha! Her 'gift' was likely to be the sweet relief of death after you've _begged _for it. Begged like your mother and sisters _begged _for their pathetic lives when the chaos you _RAN _from deformed them!"

Quelana clambered to her feet, anger coursing through her so thickly she could not stop little licks of flames leaping from the tips of her fingers, and rushed to Kirk with the intention of burning him alive. The Knight of Thorns, perhaps planning to awaken her anger the whole time, had been ready though, and by the time she reached him, his hand darted forth, snatched her ankle, and pulled her to the ground. She fell in an awkward twist, still weakened from her previous spell's exertion, and Kirk easily mounted her and pinned her beneath his weight. He snarled like a mad beast as he swung the chains of his manacles up and around her head. They came down around her neck and he _squeezed_, choking off her air supply.

"I'm gonna die here, bitch," he whispered beside her ear. "But so are _you_. Can you feel that? Your precious air being taken from you? Tell me... can a flame _live _without oxygen? _HA!_"

Quelana could only reply with choked sputters from her sealed throat. She clawed desperately at the chain around her neck, but Kirk pull it tighter and her hands fell away as her mouth gaped soundlessly. She thrashed under his weight, but his armored body was far too heavy to move.

"Snuff the flame, snuff the flame, snuff the flame," Kirk whispered in a cheerful melodic way as he strangled her to death.

Black water began pooling around the edges of her vision, washing away her consciousness. Quelana clawed once more at Kirk's hands before she lacked the strength to do so and her arms fell to her sides. Her head spun, her cheeks numbed, and she had the distinct taste of smoke on her tongue: as if from a flame that had been extinguished into darkness.

When the black water came to drown her in its dark void forever, she glimpsed Lautrec appear over Kirk's shoulder, take a fistful of the man's hair to wrench his head back, and drive the butt of a sword down into the man's nose.

The chains came loose immediately, and Quelana ripped them away from her throat, pulling deep gasps of air into her oxygen-starved lungs.

Lautrec buried the sword's butt into Kirk's face again, knocking teeth from his mouth. The next strike sent streams of blood leaking from his nostrils. The _next _swelled his eye shut, and the final was enough to knock the Knight of Thorns unconscious.

His limp body fell splayed out at Lautrec's feet.

Quelana sat up on her elbows, still gasping for air as her eyes lifted to Lautrec's own. The grey, cold, things she'd first looked upon in Blighttown stared back at her, but, like Abby's, she saw whomever the man that lived within them once was now gone.

If she could have spoke, she would have, but her throat felt raw and chaffed and so Quelana could only nod her appreciation. His hand extended to her, she took it, and the knight pulled her to her feet. She cleared her throat and rubbed at the pain there before attempting to speak again. When she did, the word was raw and coarse and quiet. "..._Abby?_"

Lautrec looked to his side, as if expecting her to be there. When she wasn't he spun around towards the center of the room. Quelana stepped out from the pillar's shadow to look herself. The base of the prison tower had cleared out, Rickert and Solaire ushering the very last of them into the big, barred, room that extended beneath a stone archway beside them. In the center of the tower, Logan's machine had began spinning even _more _quickly, more _furiously_, and beneath it-walking closer and closer as if entranced-Abby approached.

"_Abby!_" Quelana meant to shout, but her hoarse voice came barely audible to even her own ears. She had gone three steps forward to halt the girl when an explosion _CRACKED _behind her so violent and sudden, both Lautrec and Quelana were thrown forward to the ground.

Chunks of rock rained down around them as a cascade of rubble slid from the gaping hole that had birthed in the tower's wall. Solaire and Rickert came rushing up beside Quelana to help her up as she stared into the dusty debris that was billowing about in a frenetic swirl because of Logan's machine. Something big was moving forward from behind the veil of dust, and when Quelana heard a growl start to rumble its anger, she spun on Solaire to warn him of what came. Her mouth opened, but now the dust had joined her wounded throat, and she could not even utter a single word.

"My lady?" Solaire questioned, taking her arm over his shoulder to steady her. "What is it?"

A crowd of curious refugees came running back into the central room to set their awestruck eyes upon the hole.

Quelana croaked a word, but it came too quiet to be heard. Solaire leaned closer to her and she tried again, this time managing to put a bit more effort behind the warning. "..._wolf._"

"Wolf?" Solaire echoed.

It came from the darkness of the hole it had birthed, and with it came its growling and its slobbering and all of its mad fury and hatred that she'd seen housed in the beast's beady eyes when it was locked away in Logan's dungeon. Sif leaped through the air, a trail of loose rock sailing beneath his paws as he came, and when the mighty grey beast landed, his hulking mass of fur and muscle loomed over the entire room as he reared back on his hind quarters and howled a blood-curdling scream that trailed to the very peak of the tower above. When his front paws returned to the stone underfoot, he lunged ahead at the pack of stunned refugees. A man near the front screamed and turned to scramble away. He'd made it not two steps when the wolf's enormous jaws closed shut around his leg. Sif jerked its head, and the leg went sailing across the room; the owner left staring in horror at his deformity. His suffering did not last long. The beast's jaw clamped on his body, thrashed him about like a ragdoll, and ended him with a final slam to the ground.

"Praise the Sun..." Solaire muttered, scrambling to unsheath his sword.

The black skin above the wolf's muzzle curled away, revealing a forest of white daggers beneath, pointed and dripping with drool. It snapped at the air, bellowing a ferocious roar and sending a wave of foul-smelling breath forth.

Tarkus and Rhea emerged from the barred room-Tarkus' side now stitched shut-and the two of them wore matching expressions of horror upon glimpsing the giant beast that now dominated the room alongside Logan's machine. Quelana's eyes moved from them to the stairs, where her lava had dissipated to leave a clear path for the hollows to continue their assault, and finally back to Abby, who seemed to be the one person in the castle who was uninterested in Sif. The girl was standing just outside the machine's twisting orb of parts, and Quelana saw her hands were wrapped around a lever there at the base.

Sif's roar commanded her attention back his way. The wolf was shifting its paws around to send the beast's snout in a vigilant circle as it eyed down potential attackers. Tarkus had taken up his greatsword and tried getting at the thing's flank, but Sif whipped his head around to snap at the big man and keep him at bay. Solaire moved in behind the creature, straight sword drawn, as Rhea and Rickert spread out in attempt to pull the monster's gaze their way. The vacant look had returned to Lautrec's eyes, but when Quelana stepped beside him and sent a lick of flame before his eyes, he raised his head as if waking from a dream. His focus moved to the wolf and Quelana saw, with some sense of relief, his hand wrapped the hilt of his sword and he pressed in with the others to join the attack. Quelana herself kept a watchful eye on the thing as she shuffled towards Abby.

The hollows were halfway to the base of the stairs.

The wolf launched into an arching sweep of its enormous body in attempt to stave off the five brave enough to encircle it. Sif landed, but too close to Solaire's sword, which he promptly jabbed at the beast's hind leg. Sif pulled away, spun, and drove its snout into the Knight of Sunlight. Solaire got his shield up, but the force of the blow was enough to send him rocking back on his heels. Tarkus roared a warcry and pressed in to swing his massive sword into Sif's side, but the wolf hopped with surprise deftness to its side, avoiding the blow. Rickert sent a bolt of magic forth from the half-a-catalyst he had left. The spell slapped the wolf's shoulder, but the attack only seemed to rile its fury. When it launched for Rickert, Rhea stepped forth and cast a miracle that sent blinding light into the wolf's face. Sif roared and buried its snout beneath its paw to shield its eyes. Lautrec seized the opportunity to jab the tip of his blade into the wolf's paw. It pierced the flesh there, and a spray of blood inked the wofl's grey fur. Sif howled in anguish and closed its jaw around the sword as Lautrec made to pull back. It yanked it from his hand, but when the creature moved in for the kill, Quelana cast a pillar of flame upon it, searing its snout and sending the wolf leaping away. She turned back to Abby.

"Abby!" She shouted, rushing beside the girl. "What are you doing!?"

"It's not fully turned on, Quelana! Look!" She said, pointing at the lever. "Help me!"

Quelana saw the girl had the right of it: the lever was shifted around the base of the construction in a long groove, but there was still room for it to be wedged deeper. "Why do you want to turn it _on_!?" She shouted to be heard over both the machine's rumbling as well as the giant wolf's.

"Look!" Abby said, pointing to the stairs, where the hollows had just reached the end. "We will all _die _down here! We need to try _some_thing, don't we!? Help me! Turn Logan's machine on and let us see what it does!"

Quelana held Abby's eyes. There was no madness in them as there had been in the days past, of that she was sure, but there was a _wildness_ there, perhaps the sort of daring exuberance that only youth could truly obtain. She glanced back towards the fight. Tarkus had worked his way beneath the wolf's belly, and was taking desperate stabs up to the creature's underside. Sif was shifting about, snapping at the big man's limbs, but Rhea had moved closer and was sending miracle after miracle of blinding light to keep the creature dazed and Tarkus safe. Lautrec, without a sword any longer, stood watching from outside the fray. "Lautrec!" Quelana called after him, and when he did not turn, raised her voice even further. "_LAUTREC!_"

He turned, and she waved him over. When the knight had joined beside them, Quelana told him of Abby's idea, and though he spoke no reply, his nod was enough to let them know he agreed with it. Abby returned the gesture before looking to Quelana for approval.

"Alright, Abby..." she began. "Let's turn it on."

Abby licked at her lips eagerly and set her eyes upon the lever. Her small hands wrapped it. Quelana joined her own beneath them. Lautrec's eyes flicked between the two of them. He hesitated only briefly before stepping forth and joining. With that, Quelana and Abby began to pull, Lautrec digging in on his side to push, and the lever began, slowly, to turn. Lautrec's arms tensed beneath his leathers as his face reddened with exertion. Quelana fought desperately to keep her hands on the wooden thing as she and Abby leaned their weight back to move it.

The hollows flooded the base of the tower. Rickert pulled loose a dagger and rushed to Rhea's side to fend the decaying things off as Tarkus wrestled with Sif. Solaire was positioned perfectly between the machine and the wolf, and when he must have heard Abby shout with a harsh pull on the lever, his gaze found them. He looked upon the three of them as if they were mad, huddled there beneath the unstable swirling chaos of Logan's machine, but after a moment, his feet began carrying him closer. When he neared and saw their struggles, the Knight of Sunlight looked to each of them in turn, sheathed his sword, and joined their efforts beside Lautrec

With the knight's added strength, the four of them started moving at a faster pace; the lever buried in the fall of their fingers and knuckles and palms groaning and screeching as the metal plating it connected with lurched across a web of mechanisms beneath. Something overhead _crackled, _and Quelana stole a glance upwards to see the spinning bits had raced to such a maddening momentum, bolts of blue _lightning _had started lashing at the air around the golden orb, as if some otherworldly storm had been conjured from within. Both Solaire and Lautrec fell forward as the last bit of gap in the lever's path was slotted over, and the machine was turned fully on. The sound of the towering monstrosity had grown so deafening, when Abby shouted beside her, the words were as silent as if they hadn't been spoken at all. Quelana took hold of the girl's arm and dragged her away to give the machine a wide birth before it erupted.

Wind came then so furious, Quelana's black hair was sent wildly spinning before her face. She clawed it from her eyes to see both Lautrec and Solaire moving alongside them, their backs turned so they could watch the machine spin. At the stairs, the great grey wolf had calmed itself, and even _its _eyes were held in the center of the room. The hollows had halted their attack. Tarkus, Rhea, and Rickert stumbled forth, shielding their eyes as blue and gold light took the tower in flashes. At Quelana's rear, she saw refugees had began to come stumbling out of the barred room as if waking from of a dream; every one of their eyes upturned to the machine; every one of their mouth's gaping. They began to clutch on to one another, perhaps in fear, perhaps in wonder.

Blue lightning crackled out of the machine's core, spiraling up towards the tower ceiling above. The bronze bar was moving so fast around its outer edge now, it no longer only _looked _like a golden orb, it had _become _one. The wind it generated rose so fiercely, every one of Logan's documents and books and ledgers and scrolls were sucked up into the air in a blizzard of swirling papers. Sif backed into the wall at its hind quarters whimpering; the beast's fur looking ready to rip right from its skin. Another shot of lightning reached its jagged arm to the ground. It collided with the stone, sending a spray of rock from the impact and leaving a scorched-black circle in its wake. _More _lightning lashed out around the orb in every direction, reached halfway to the curved walls of the tower, and pulled back in on itself. The blue ripples did not fade, however, they _grew_ and began encasing the spinning orb entirely; faster and faster and _faster _until it appeared as if a globe housed a pool of water.

From the liquid-like coating that now wrapped the machine's core, vague but colorful shapes began to take form. Quelana's breath caught in her chest as she, alongside every living soul beside her, stood transfixed upon the images that bubbled to the surface. At first, whatever the machine was revealing was far too obscured to make out, but as it spun on, picking up speed and wind and volume, they formed.

She watched an orange and red blob grow in detail until it looked like some flame-covered giant, thrashing its claws furiously at the air around it as it lurked in a forest of stone pillars. Another, darker, blob grew _spears _from its sides, as if it were made up of a line of soldiers in phalanx-formation. Something fat and round wobbled up out of the pits of a stone basin with a massive, pink, tongue lashing around its body. A knight clad in heavy armor and wielding a shield and sword stepped from a fog, but when Quelana narrowed her eyes upon the thing's feet, she saw it was no mere man, but a _giant_ who stood looming over an entire castle. A tunnel rippled from the machine's core, at the end of which, a long-legged enormous spider came rushing up from a mineshaft to screech and claw towards them.

The images began appearing and fading even quicker as the machine wobbled and bowed as if ready to burst. A floating sorceress hovered in an abandoned church, flanked by mirror-images of herself drifting between the pews. A dragon clawed its way up from, perhaps, Izalith itself to breath flames so furiously, Quelana could only think that _this _beast was, perhaps, the Godof _all _dragons. A pair of twin Gargoyles descended upon a stone tower's parapets, their eyes glowing like beacons of flame in their heads.

The demons and beasts and creatures flashed in the machine's core in an instant, and when they had gone, a _woman _took their place. A maiden in black robes, barefoot, her eyes sealed over with dark grey bandages. Though she clearly could not see, her head snapped to the surface of the machine, as if she were looking_ out_ at Quelana and the rest as they stood looking _in_ at her. The maiden's head cocked on its side and she raised a hand forward as if to push herself right out of whatever otherworldly prison the machine housed and into Lordran itself.

Something snapped.

A piece of the machine flung free, colliding with the prison tower's wall so severely, it _planted _itself in a crater there. The image faded, and with it, the maiden in black. Blue lightning broke apart to begin clawing wildly at the air around the orb again. Another piece cracked loose and went ricocheting up into the tower's upper levels. Then, the prison tower _itself _began to tremble, and Quelana lifted her gaze to see stones were shaking loose from the walls to come crashing down in a storm of bricks and debris. She was only vaguely aware Lautrec was beside her til his hand wrapped her waist and pulled.

She turned to see the crowd of refugees and soldiers, of men and women and children, of knights and sorcerers and clerics, had united in a wave of terror-stricken faces and soundless screams beneath the machine's wailing. Quelana's eyes filled with light from the tower's core and something _exploded _so loudly, she swore it had deafened her completely.

Then Lautrec was throwing her to the ground as the tower came down around them.

* * *

**-o-o-o-**

* * *

When it was over, the hollows were gone, the wolf was buried in a pile of rubble, presumably dead, and those left living were choked in a swarm of dust and debris so thickly laid around them, the only sound that remained in the castle seemed to be that of fits of coughing and gagging. Quelana wrestled to her feet, her eyes sweeping the crowd of downed men and women to find Abby rising up with Solaire's aid. Tarkus, Rhea, Rickert... they had all made it as well. In fact, nearly everyone who had fled to the room outside the machine seemed to have lived through the explosion. _Thanks the Gods for that, _Quelana thought as Lautrec rose beside her. _His _eyes were fixed into the dusty pit of destruction that had been Logan's chambers, but only ruin lied that way, and soon enough, he turned from it.

No one spoke to one another. Perhaps it was the shock from what they had lived through. Perhaps Logan's machine had burned too frightening an image in their minds to give their tongues freedom to yet move. Perhaps, like Quelana herself, they only wanted to be rid of the place once and for all. Whatever it was, _no _one looked ready to speak about what they'd seen in the swirl of Logan's lightning-laced orb. Quelana could not blame them; she was staving off the thought of it herself, lest it turn her mad. _Blue lightning, _a voice threatened to remind her of the madness she'd glimpsed. _Blue lighting, blue lightning, blue lightning. _

She forced the thought from her head and turned to find the bookshelf that once housed Logan's hidden passage to the dungeons beyond knocked aside; the tunnel beyond standing in wait. If it _hadn't, _they likely would have all died there, trapped in the base of the prison tower to starve out the remainder of their days.

Crawling over a spill of chipped stone, Quelana moved to the tunnel, stood beside it, and raised her arm over her head to command a lick of flame to the air. The dazed eyes of the survivors found her, and without waiting for their acquiescence, she turned and led the way outside to the gardens. Soon enough, she heard their feet following along behind her.

The gardens outside were as deserted as the prison tower had been. If Priscilla had told it true earlier about the shellfish creatures, whatever Logan's machine had stirred up had sent them back to their caves. Across the snowy slope of the garden, and beyond a thicket of trees, a section of stone had been torn asunder from the Archive's outer wall. Beyond, Quelana could see the hillside that would carry them back towards Anor Londo, and once again, she did not ask for approval or aid, only walked on, leading them across the heavy snows underfoot towards the broken sect of wall.

Abby fell in beside her, and the two walked silently on for awhile until they passed a bloody and battered corpse lying half-buried in the snows. "Chester," Abby said, staring upon the corpse with an unwavering look in her eye. "I killed him."

Quelana nodded, but there did not seem to be any words worth exchanging over the confession, and so she only took Abby's arm in her own and walked on.

They were the first two to reach the battered outer wall, and standing at the crest of the hill that sloped up to meet their feet, Quelana could see a group of men and women awaiting them across the hill and around the bend at Anor Londo's great, upper, wall. The falling snows obscured the distant group, but when Quelana squinted, she could have sworn _Patches _stood among their ranks. She waited, then, for both Solaire and Lautrec to fall in beside her before moving on, watching as each of their eyes found the rogue group for themselves. A look of interest took the Knight of Sunlight, but Lautrec only lowered his head and marched forth, as if the very act of _walking _was a burden to him.

The rest of the survivors came pouring out into the gardens behind her, hands clutched together as if holding dear to the person next to them would keep them from drifting away. Quelana pulled a breath of crisp air and looked East to the sun rising up over the mountains. Abby's arm wrapped her own, and Quelana forced a smile upon the girl as they went trudging down the slope of the hill, leaving the Duke's Archives behind. _Leaving it behind _forever_, _Quelana hoped.

When the stream of survivors, led at its tip by Solaire and Lautrec, traversed the hill and clambered down the rocky fall of cliff that led back out to the Archives' main tunnel, they were quick to press on beneath the twist of stairs that wound back to Anor Londo's upper wall, perhaps the rest of them just as eager to be rid of the nightmare that was the Duke's Archives as Quelana herself.

They walked on beneath the high-ceilinged chamber that divided the two sections of Lordran-the massive statue of a hammer-wielding brute still standing tall within-and passed beneath its arched doorway. The rogue group were waiting a bit further on in the snows, nothing at their backs and sides to protect them. _That means they're friendly, _Quelana thought with some semblance of hope rising in her.

As they neared, she saw Patches _was _in fact amongst them. The merchant, Domhnall, too. And when Solaire finally raised an arm to give halt to their progress, Quelana spotted a bearded young man in dark leathers that she recognized after a moment as Benjamin. _What are they all doing together? _She wondered. Her eyes moved to Abby beside her and saw the girl was staring fiercely forward at Ben. The young man who'd been rescued so long ago by Lautrec and herself, alongside Abby from the Asylum, was doing the same in _her _direction.

Neither group spoke until the Archives' last few straggling survivors had bunched up at the rear. Tarkus came marching forward, his greatsword clutched at the hilt in his meaty hands as he eyed up the new group. Rickert and Rhea were not far behind. It was Patches, though, who was the first to speak. The bald man sauntered ahead of his group, grinning and spreading his arms wide to his sides. "Ladies and gentleman, _survivors _of the greatest assault Lordran has ever seen, I present to you your savior, your hero, and your _Chosen_," he said, bowing and stepping to the side to present Ben.

A rumbling of confusion spread through the crowd as Ben stood before them, his dark eyes sweeping their numbers. Quelana watched him, and saw, like Abby, the innocence he'd had when Lautrec had taken him from the Undead Asylum was all but gone, and only the hardened face of a _man _remained beneath his shaggy beard. _The two of them have shed their youthful skins, _Quelana thought, glancing between them. _But who are the young man and young woman left in their place?_

"What is this nonsense you speak of?" Solaire called across the gap.

"_Nonsense_?" Patches echoed. "You'd best watch your tongue, Sun Warrior. You stand in the presence of the man who just saved all of your lives. Show some gratitude."

Tarkus marched across the gap between the two groups, his massive shadow falling upon the Hyena's face and robbing it of its confidence. "You'd better start explaining yourself, friend. Let's see if you talk quicker than my greatsword here."

A older, muscle-bound, man with a mane of grey hair moved before Tarkus, and Quelana saw, with some astonishment, he might have been the only man in Lordran who actually _could _stand toe-to-toe with the giant and not looking puny in comparison. "Stand down, fella," he growled. "Yer out of line. This man speaks it true. Show 'em the corpse."

Domhnall and a heavy-set man lifted something off the snows at the group's rear. They dragged it forth as their fellowship parted down the middle to form a path. They shoved it forward. It was the body of a man, or perhaps a woman, in silk robes and sandals, a crown atop his or her head, and a pool of dried blood clotting the corpse's mouth and nose. Abby gasped and brought her hands to her mouth. "..._him," _she whispered.

Solaire stared upon the lifeless thing for a moment before turning his gaze on Patches and the others. "What is this supposed to be?"

"That there is the fella' that was _leadin' _them hollows!" The grey-maned man bellowed.

"Ben here _killed _him," Patches added, his grin returning despite Tarkus' massive figure beside him. "And when he did, the hollows tucked tail and hauled their sorry, rotting, asses back to Anor Londo."

"I'm afraid not. It was Abby's idea to turn on Logan's machine," Solaire explained. "It was the _girl's _plan that saved us, not some _boy _killing this... _thing_," he said, gesturing to the corpse between them. "The moment the machine came alive, the hollow halted their attack."

"_Piss on that_!" Patches shouted. "That's a bloody lie! I _seen _the hollows stop! It wasn't until Ben murdered the Dark Sun Gwyndolin, leader of the Blade of the Darkmoon, and the _last _remaining God in Lordran... well, _was _the last remaining God, at least, until Ben here killed him. That's right. The Chosen here is a _God-_slayer! Show him your respect and admiration! He saved your bloody lives!"

"He did not save our lives and he is _not _the Chosen," Quelana spoke up, pulling all eyes her way. She swallowed, collecting herself under their pressure, and went on. "_Abby _is the Chosen. You all know that."

"Gods, you still travel with the _witch_!?" Patches snapped. "Are you all as mad as Havel the Rock? She's not even _human_, you fools! Don't let her deceptions poison your minds! She stands among you now, but when the time comes she will cast her spells upon you and turn you into slaves of Izalith. It was her bloody mother's _fault _that all the world's demons came crawling up to destroy mankind in the first place!"

"You will not speak of Lady Quelana in that manner again," Solaire warned Patches, unsheathing his straight sword. "I stood beside her, _fought _beside her. I saw her courage and compassion for our kind first hand!"

"Tricks. Deceptions," Patches said. "Cut her serpent's tongue from her mouth or slit her throat. Don't, and you'll all be her slave soon enough. As _I _nearly was."

Quelana narrowed her eyes furiously on the Hyena. "I watched this man stab Lautrec, Knight of Carim, the man who just fought beside you all to save your lives, in the back and _throw him from a bridge_! If you are looking to outcast someone, it is _him_ you should look to."

"I didn't kill Lautrec," Patches said. "In fact, I think I see him standing right _there_. Hee-hee. I saved all our lives on the bridge that day, _his _included. His mad plan was to hole up and wait for Chester and Kirk to starve us out. I did everyone a favor and put that plan to bed. I stabbed him in the _side _not the stomach, not the _throat. _I put my blade in the one place he might live from." Patches craned his head back to find Lautrec. "You can thank me later, old buddy."

Quelana turned to Lautrec, but the man's eyes were not on Patches nor herself, they were on Anastacia, who had joined the group at the rear of the pack and was nervously scrunching the hem of her robe in her hands. Lautrec's fingers were rubbing against each other and she could see his teeth gritting beneath the line of his jaw, stirring some clandestine hatred within. She went to him, stepped in the line of sight of the man's sister, and forced his eyes upon _her _instead. "No," she told him with a shake of her head. "Not after all you've been through. _Please_."

"_Knight_ _Lautrec!_" A woman's voice called from from Patches' group. Quelana looked to see a tall, broad-shoulder, woman lumbering forward, a dusting of freckles on her face beneath an unkempt fall of mousy brown hair. She shouldered her way into their group, apparently not worried in the slightest, and stepped beside Lautrec. "Knight Lautrec, what have you found? My father..." hey eyes flitted around the crowd in wild movements, searching. "I don't see him. Please, knight. Siegmeyer, my father... did you learn anything?"

Lautrec, never one for subtlety since Quelana had first encountered him in Blighttown, lifted his gaze to her and spoke for the first time since the event with Anastacia. "Your father is dead, Sieglinde."

The woman's face scrunched up in agony. "...n-no..." she pleaded. "You... you lie..."

"He's dead," Lautrec confirmed. The knight reached to his hip and unsheathed his sword. He laid it in the woman's open palm and used his hands to close her fingers over its hilt. "Vengeance is, perhaps, a man or woman's most dangerous road to travel," he said, his eyes flicking briefly to Quelana's. "It is best to deal with it quickly... lest it consume you... lest it _destroy_ you."

Sieglinde swiped tears from her cheek. "What? I... I don't understand...?"

Lautrec moved back into the crowd, men and women parting to scramble out of his path, and came upon the Knight of Thorns, still shackled; his face bloody and battered from Lautrec's earlier beating. Lautrec took the man firmly by the arm and, despite Kirk's feeble attempts to writhe free, marched him up before Sieglinde. Lautrec's boot took the back of Kirk's leg, collapsing him to his knees before the woman. "Here is your father's killer. His life is yours now."

Kirk's eyes widened on Sieglinde's. He tried speaking some protest, but Lautrec's attack earlier had likely broke his jaw, and only mumbled nonsense came spilling from his thick lips.

Sieglinde's anger replaced her sorrow. The woman's face turned red. Her arms trembled. Her knuckles went white around the hilt of her blade. She hoisted the sword Lautrec had handed her to her broad shoulder and strode forward.

Kirk desperately shook his head one last time before Sieglinde's slash removed it from his neck.

The severed head rolled to a halt in the snows beside Kirk's body, and shortly after, the bodyfell as well, and the Knight of Thorns was no more.

Sieglinde spit on his corpse, but with the task of vengeance completed, her sorrow returned and she broke into deep sobs. The grey-maned man rushed forward and took her in his enormous arms, stroking at her hair and whispering comforting words in her ear.

"_Rhea_!" The heavy-set man from the opposed group called and _he _lumbered forward as well. "Nico's gone, too."

The priestess went to him and allowed his head to fall upon her shoulder. "Nico's dead?" Rhea asked, her comely face lining with sympathy. "Oh, poor Vincent. Shhhh, there now. It's alright."

After that, whatever tension remained between the two groups seemed to dissipate. They merged together, though Ben and Abby kept their distance, their eyes still locked on one another's, and Patches made sure to avoid both Lautrec and Quelana. Solaire and Takrus got to talking with Andre-Quelana was beginning to piece together names from her position outside the circle-and Domhnall, and soon enough, the four were chatting as if they _weren't _nearly prepared to go to battle with one another moment's earlier.

"You're Solaire?" She heard Benjamin speak up into the group.

The men turned on him and Solaire nodded his head. "I am, young man."

"He said your name," Ben told the knight.

Solaire frowned. "Oh whom do you speak, son? _Who _said my name?"

"Gwyndolin. When I killed him... he croaked one last word before he died. I'm fairly certain it was _your _name. 'Solaire'."

The Knight of Sunlight's frown deepened as the group's attention fell upon him. "Well, I- I do not know why that would be... perhaps you are mistaken? Perhaps it only _sounded _like-"

"I'm not," Ben cut him off, and Quelana heard a cockiness in his voice that had not been there when she last saw him at the Burg. _Patches influence, most likely, _she thought.

"Why would he say my name?" Solaire asked. "It makes no sense. I did not know the man, nor his covenant. He, certainly, did not know me."

Ben shrugged. "I heard what I heard."

"And I'm telling you, boy, you heard _wrong_," Solaire insisted.

"Don't call your savior 'boy'," said Patches. "Weren't for him, you'd be picking the hollows spears out of your asses as we speak."

"I'm still not convinced he's _my_ 'savior', sir," Solaire replied.

"It _is _true, knight," Andre said. "Ben walked into that Gwyndolin fella's little carriage, and when he walked out with the man's corpse, the hollows halted. They stood there all frozen and confused lookin' fer a moment. Then they started the march back to the city."

"How did you _kill _Gwyndolin anyway," Quelana piped up from outside the circle.

Ben's dark eyes found her and narrowed. "What does that matter? He attacked me so I strangled him."

"Why is there blood on his nose and mouth?" She asked.

Ben shrugged. "Guess that means I _hit_ him in the nose or mouth," he replied.

"The hollows are back in Anor Londo, ey?" Tarkus interjected, casting his gaze to the North, where the city lay quiet and dormant below the morning sun. "Cowards."

"Yes, but for how _long _do they stay in retreat?" Solaire questioned.

"I'm freezin' my damned arse off up here," Andre growled. "Why don't we have this little talk somewhere warmer." The man's eyes moved to the Archives. "S'ppose that there castle is out of the question. Looks like the whole damned thing came down on top of yas. We can return to the Undead Parish. We got a church set up there. Well fortified. Food. Water. Most important, the young ones, whom I'm sure some of their parents are among your group back there."

"Very good," Solaire said. "Perhaps it would be for the best. I'm not entirely comfortable standing outside a city of hollows myself."

"And say we all gather up like one, big, happy family in your little church," Tarkus began. "What then? What are we supposed to _do _now? Logan's machine was... some kind of... illusion. It did nothing."

"It stopped the hollows," Solaire pointed out.

"No it didn't," Patches was quick to correct. "_Ben _did."

Rhea moved beside the group and cleared her throat, pulling their attention her way. "I, well, am not certain about what stopped the hollows, but, well, I believe we should continue on the Path my friend Nico had laid before us. A pilgrimage. To the Great Hollow beneath Lordran... and to the Eternal Dragon to receive his judgement and, well, perhaps-."

"Piss on that," Patches growled.

"For once, I can agree with the Hyena," Tarkus added. "I'm not going to see no _dragon."_

Rhea frowned. "B-but-"

"We have the _Chosen_ here, woman," Patches cut her off, laying a hand on Ben. "We get him to Gwyn and we let him save Lordran. As it _should _be. End of story."

Quelana glanced to Abby, but the girl appeared intent on holding her tongue. Quelana's gaze fell further back to Lautrec, wishing he'd say something and show some of that fiery command that he had displayed so abundantly in the early days of their travels, but Lautrec only stared listlessly upon his own boots, apparently disinterested in the conversation entirely.

"A man comes from the Archives!" Laurentius shouted from the crowd, and every eye turned back to path of ruin that led from the castle to the city.

Upon it, a single man was running forward from the crumbling castle walls, heading in their direction.

"What in Izalith?" Solaire questioned. "Who is that?"

They didn't have to wait long for the answer. The man came sprinting up to them, gasping for air and swiping sweat from his brow. As he neared, Quelana saw it was, in fact, a dead man.

"That's Griggs! Laurentius shouted.

"The sorcerer?" Solaire questioned. "The one who _murdered _all the firekeepers?"

"He didn't murder them," Quelana informed him. "It was Logan who killed them. Griggs only took the fall. I came upon him locked away in Logan's dungeon. He wrote his story down for me and it seemed true enough. But... the last time I saw him... I could have sworn he was dead."

"Don't look dead to me," Patches added from behind them.

Griggs came running up to the group, his eyes moving from person to person, his lips lifting in a smile as he nodded enthusiastically.

"He has no tongue," Quelana explained. "Logan cut it from his mouth so he could not tell of the mad sorcerer's treacheries." She narrowed his eyes upon him, however, and could not help an odd feeling steal across her. There was something... _strange _about the man. And she had been so certain he wasn't breathing when she'd rescued Anastacia from his cell. Griggs' eyes moved to Ben and the man's queer smile broadened as he stared upon the boy. Ben grimaced and looked away.

"Well, one more survivor is one more able-bodied man to work and defend should the hollows collect themselves and retaliate," Solaire said. "Praise the Sun for that."

"Can we _go_?" Andre growled. "I've had enough of this damned city to last me another lifetime or two. We got ropes strung up leading down off the wall back towards Sen's Fortress. We can get through that way... going won't be easy, but... you don't look like you got too many injured in yer ranks. They'll make it. Probably."

A smattering of agreement coursed through the two groups and just when they were readying to join and move, Rickert halted them by stepping out towards the city and shouting, "_Wait_!"

All eyes fell on the young man.

"You'd best be keepin' me from a warm meal fer a good reason, boy," Andre snapped.

When Rickert turned to face them, Quelana saw the most genuine smile she'd ever seen plastered to his face. He looked from person to person, nodding his head exuberantly. "Don't you feel it? Ray! Come here!"

Rhea furrowed her brow, but walked beside him anyway. Rickert took her by the shoulders and threw his head back in laughter.

"A shame Rickert there survived the hollow only to lose his mind," Tarkus said, a laugh escaping his own lips.

"I feel it..." Abby said, a smile rising up her face. "He's right. Quelana, he's _right!_"

"What are you two-" Quelana began.

Abby stuck her hand out between them, palm up. Quelana looked to it, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then a circle of water formed upon it. And another. And _another_.

"Water?" Quelana asked.

"Not just water," Tarkus began, a look of almost childish wonder rising up his face. "_Rain_!" he bellowed. He lifted his eyes skywards and cheered. "Gods be good! I'm not cold!"

Solaire watched as raindrops fell to his brow. The Knight of Sunlight grinned. "Can this be...?"

"_AH-HAAAA!_" Rickert cheered, hoisting Rhea into his arms and spinning the laughing priestess in a circle. "It's over! Bloody hell! _IT'S OVER!_"

And just like that, the falling snows tapered off, and the _rain_ began as the air started to warm around them. An excited roar of chatter moved through the survivors like a wave, and then people were laughing and raising their hands skyward as the rain fell upon them and The Great Cold that had held Lordran in its icy grip for so long... was no more. Thunder rumbled above the distant peaks of the East, and the showers picked up, and soon enough, it was coming down so heavily, Anor Londo's wall came alive with the _pattering _of a thousand raindrops. Men lurched from the crowd, stripping their heavy coats and cloaks to lay there heads back and collect rain on their faces. The children scurried out from their mother's skirts and clapped their hands, stomping about in the melting snows at their feet. Solaire and Tarkus looked to each other and laughed. _Can this be true or is it just another illusion? _Quelana wondered, but as the weather warmed and warmed, and the rain fell and fell, her doubts were slowly but surely removed. Something had changed - truly, wonderfully, _changed_. Perhaps it was Logan's machine's purpose after all to save Lordran in the end, or perhaps it was as Patches said and Ben's murder of Gwyndolin had steered the Gods' plan in another direction. For the first time in a very long time, a hearty smile took Quelana's face as she cupped her hands to collect rain water. She turned her smile on Lautrec-

-and the knight's somber expression stole her joy. His eyes were held on the East, where the dark, purple, clouds of the storm were still moving their way, and as Quelana looked to them herself, she thought she knew why Lautrec was not happy, and a hopeless feeling stole across her so fiercely, she felt like collapsing.

_Because we've ended one disaster, _she thought. _But perhaps _started_ another. _The clouds drifted forward ominously, a queer twist of light and smoke boiling at their bellies, and the distant sounds of roaring thunder growing more and more severe as it approached. She glanced to Ben and Abby: the boy, seemingly the only other one atop the wall without a smile on his face, and the Abby's own smile fading as she looked upon her counterpart. They stared at each other so intensely, Quelana thought that perhaps one were trying to read the others' thoughts.

_The cold _is_ over, _Quelana realized. _But what changes will come to this strange, new, Lordran of ours now? This mad world where _two _Chosen roam, and Logan's machine birthed, perhaps, a portal to some other world? _Quelana watched as a streak of lightning took the Eastern mountain tops. It was too distant to tell, but perhaps the lightning was not yellow... perhaps it was _blue_.

_ Our era of cold has ended, _Quelana thought.

_ ...and now our _storm_ begins._

* * *

**-To Be Continued-**


	39. Chapter 39

Beneath the belly of his lantern, the flames cast their warm glow on the narrow walkways of old moss and older stone underfoot, and Ingward made sure each of his steps was more carefully placed than the last, so as not to slip and plummet to the darkness that awaited him below. His legs were old, and all bundled up in his heavy, crimson, robes, they were like to betray him if he attempted to hasten his pace, and so not only did he move cautiously, but slowly as well. _Speed is for the young, _Ingward thought, stepping around a crumbled section of bridge. _And among all the things you've become over the years, old boy, _young _is not one of them. _

The lantern swayed as his hips shifted around an overgrown mound of moss, and the light splashed out, briefly, to paint the waters below in its incandescence. Night had fallen on the ruins of New Londo-_Though has it every truly been day here? _Ingward thought-and the black lakes below, dotted now with falling drops of rain, sloshed about beneath the light, looking not entirely unlike a river of ink, waiting to swallow up anything foolish enough to come near to it. Ingward pried his eyes from the waiting waters and continued on, refusing to let his fears turn him back.

Overhead, thunder rumbled across the peaks in the East, and lightning scratched it way down to the earth. The outline of New Londo took shape against the bolt: a jagged horizon of towers and keeps and buildings, all in ruins, all abandoned, and _all _as dark and ominous as the waters below. Ingward pulled his robes tighter around him, adjusting his sealer's mask beneath his hood to better see the way forward. Rainwater trickled down to pool at the mask's eyes. Ingward swiped it away.

The walkway curved to break into a haggard fall of stone steps that twisted around a keep, bringing him closer still to those sloshing pools of ebony waves. Ingward descended them as warily as he had the first time setting foot upon them when he was just a young man years and years past. _How naive you were then, old boy, _he thought. _And if you and your brothers had known then what you know now… would you still have given up your lives to atone for those who were sacrificed when the darkness beneath was sealed away? Would you have still taken the Oath if you'd known it meant an eternity of servitude? _If Ingward dwelled on that question now, as he had many, many, days and nights past, the answer might be enough to turn him back, and so he cast the thought aside and pressed onwards.

By the time he'd climbed up and down the ruins' many stairs, traversed the narrow walkways that wrapped the towers and keeps, and descended to New Londo's lower section, where black water splashed up to soak his boots, Ingward was huffing and puffing and peeling back his mask to dab the sweat from his wrinkled brow. He was leaned against a fall of rock and moss, awaiting his wind to return to him, when the voice spoke.

"_Guardian of the Seal,_" it hissed from some hidden shadow; a thick, slimy, voice that was as mysterious and queer as the creature it belonged to. Ingward turned to spot the beast, but his eyes fell only upon the bony finger of stone jutting up from the darkness around it that was the last remnants of the abyss, and of the four kings. He had watched as the Chosen traversed down into that very tower with a ring that gifted him the ability to _enter_ the abyss… and live through it to return. But that was a long time past, now, and that Chosen was dead and gone, and only _Ingward _remained to keep vigil over the dark.

"Well, come and show yourself then, serpent," he said, trying to put some courage into his command, despite the chill that had taken his spine.

"_Did you bring it?_" The voice croaked.

Ingward reached into his robes and fished out the key. He still could not spot the source of the voice, so he simply held the key out before him and jingled it against its ring. "I brought it… now you tell me what it is you want with it. And with _me_? I tire of hearing your whispers in my dreams, serpent. I do not serve you. I serve Lordran."

"_Then our master is the same,_" it hissed.

Ingward stood in the oppressive silence that followed the serpent's tongue, only the quiet smattering of raindrops stirring the waters below and the occasional rumble of distant thunder clashing to break the quiet. He swallowed, clutched more dearly to the key in his hand, and made his feet carry him nearer to the tower before asking, "...is this about the 'cycle'?"

The water at his right rose, and for one mad moment, Ingward though the inky stuff had finally come alive to reach for him, seal shut his lungs, and pull him under forever. But as he held his widened-eyes upon the terror, his breath caught in his chest, he saw it was, in fact, not the _water _that was rising, but something beneath it. A shadowy figure, tall as a mighty oak tree and just as wide, came ripping up from the surface to tower over Ingward and the walkway he stood upon. It swayed side to side, shaking loose the dampness that clung to its leathery skin, and when it was done, two great big eyes stared down at him from the thing's head.

"Kaathe," Ingward greeted the mighty, Primordial, serpent, his breath returning to him now that he could look upon the creature with his own two eyes.

"_Sealer_," the serpent returned with a bow of its head that sent more water to trickle down around Ingward's feet.

"What is it you _want_, Darkstalker?" Ingward asked, wasting no time with formalities. He had no interest in being down in the ruins' lower levels any longer than he had to. "You're serpent's tongue has been in my ear for the last two weeks and I cannot bear it any longer, so tell it true and tell it plain. What is it you want?"

"_Your kind has grown unruly, Sealer,_" Kaathe answered. "_This storm that has replaced the cold… it is the result of their careless actions._"

Ingward looked to the East, where purple clouds swirled to give birth to a ferocious storm at their bellies. As if in response to the creature's claim, a web of lightning raced through the black skies. He returned his eyes to Kaathe's and sighed. "Coldness and storms… what concern is this to you or I, serpent?"

"_Gwyndolin is dead,_" Kaathe hissed. "_As dead as his sweet sister, Gwynevere. It appears as if the old man's children are dropping off left and right these days. Whatever mad siege the Dark Sun laid upon the humans and their precious castle has failed, _perished, _and the Dark Sun perished alongside it. The humans live, and, as I said, they have grown far too unruly for their own good._"

"The boy and the girl… the 'Chosen'?" Ingward questioned. He still had a hard time coming to terms with the notion that Lordran had birthed two new Chosen Undead in the wake of the first's failures.

"_Alive,_" Kaathe answered. "_Thank the creators for that. If they had perished… well, it would certainly have been the end of you and I, Sealer. Perhaps all of Lordran._"

"But they do live. So why are we having this conversation?"

The Primordial Serpent leaned forth to lower its head nearer to Ingward. "_Because while Gwyndolin and Gwynever are gone, the threat of their existence extinguished, the larger threat still looms. Their sibling. Gwyn's firstborn. The firstborn has joined itself with the humans, wherever those troublesome little parasites reside now, and if, somehow, they discover what the firstborn can do…"_

"I see," Ingward said. "...this is as close as its ever been then, isn't it? The end, that is."

Kaathe nodded its massive head. "_Yes. If the Lordvessel is filled once more and the humans and the heathen of a God that walks among them enter the Kiln… and our new pair of Chosen don't settle matters with Gwyn themselves… it is over."_

"Unfortunate," Ingward admitted. "But, once again, what concern is it of mine? It is not my place to mingle in the affairs of my fellow man. _My _place is here, to atone for what we did to stop the abyss."

"_And you have served your purpose well,_" Kaathe admitted. "_But now, unfortunately, you must atone for the sins of your kind once again. And release the second seal."_

Ingward's mouth fell agape beneath his mask. He stared incredulously up at the serpent before him, but Kaathe only grinned its grin and stared right back, unwavering. "Release the second seal?" Ingward echoed. "...and give _you _the power to unleash your demons upon Lordran?"

"_This 'power' will not be mine alone. As it is of all things, my brethren and I _share_ the responsibilities and duties of the cycle. We exist only to aid it, and see to its continuation. _Ours_ is not a _life_ of power. It is one of servitude. As is yours, Sealer. You should be able to empathize."_

"I'd be handing you over your own personal army," Ingward snapped. "Do you take me for a fool?"

"_I take you for a man who knows the importance of that which we serve. But… I understand your apprehension. Perhaps your mind would be more at ease if you could look upon my brethren and I together, so that you can see how this 'power' would be split apart?"_

"I don't think-" Ingward began, but whatever he'd intended to say next was lost in the great roar of breaking water.

From the black moat that swamped around the King's tower, they rose: ancient, massive, serpents, each just as large and hideous as Kaathe himself. Ingward stumbled back on the walkway and nearly lost his footing as the creatures came towering up to loom over him, burying him in their shadows. Their heads swayed near to the platform, clustering around Kaathe's own, and locking their green and red slitted eyes down upon Ingward to stare. Ingward swallowed and clutched his key tighter to his chest.

"_So you see, Sealer,_" Kaathe went on. "_I am not one. I am many. And my pets will not obey the whims of just one of us, but _all _of us_."

Ingward's eyes flicked from serpent to serpent, sizing the monsters up before returning to Kaathe's own. "I don't understand. You have me outnumbered, outsized… if you desire my key so dearly, why not kill me and take it? Why burden _me _with taking part in this madness?"

"_Because you are a man,_" one of the serpent's answered.

"_And a man must choose,_" another added.

"_It is your gift,_" yet another piped up.

"_And your power."_

_"We are servants."_

_"But you are an arbiter."_

_"And only one with freedom can truly make a decision."_

_"So, go, human."_

_"Go and decide."_

_"And return only when your choice has been made."_

Ingward was so overwhelmed with the chorus of serpent's tongues hissing and whispering in his ears, he obeyed their final command almost immediately. He spun back on his heel and threw the old man's caution he'd traveled there with away in favor of a young man's desire to escape. His boots slapped against the wet stone underfoot as he hurried out of the depths of New Londo. Behind him, he could hear their soft, sweet, whispering going on and on, joining with the smattering of rain and thunder to coalesce into the perfectly definition of what Ingward must have imagined true madness sounded like. He did not look back.

**-o-o-o-**

The days following his meeting with Kaathe were restless and uncertain. Ingward returned to his vigilant post atop the ruins' main keep, and from its vantage point over the rest of New Londo, he could gaze not only over the destroyed city, but up towards the slopes and cliffs and castles that made up the rest of Lordran as well. He found his eyes returning their often while he sat, lost in his thoughts, and day after day came and went and that queer storm of purple and yellow moved nearer and nearer from the East; its rumblings growing loud enough to send ripples through the black waters of the ruins' lower levels. He thought of the men and women and children that still yet lived, despite the weather's unnatural turn that had befallen the lands, and he thought of how they were getting along in this new Lordran. He thought of days gone past and days not yet arrived. He thought of his brothers, of Yulva and the rest, and of what had become of them in the days since they'd fled and left him as the sole keeper of the seals… and of the key. He thought of the serpents and of the black army they'd requested of him. Mostly, though, he thought of the cycle, and with a bitter sense of irony, mused over how, in the end, it always came back around to that infernal cycle.

On the seventh day, he realized what must be done, and so - set about to do it.

The circle of serpents had not budged from the murky waters below the ruins, and when Ingward returned to them, they stood like leather pikes around the base of the King's tower watching him, as if in wait. It was Kaathe who spoke first, "_Come to a decision, Sealer?_"

"I'll open the second seal, Darkstalker," Ingward told him.

"_A wise decision._"

"_Very wise._"

"_You serve the cycle as we do, now, Sealer._"

"But I must know," Ingward went on. "...what will you set your creatures upon _doing_?"

A grin curled the corner's of Kaathe's wide, gaping, pit of a mouth. "_Only what is required to ensure Lordran's safety. I will have them kill the firstborn, ensuring that Gwyn will not be replaced, and then we will set them out to find the rest of the humans and retrieve the Chosen_."

"And what _of _those humans? Will they be permitted to keep their lives?"

"_When the cycle spins back around? Certainly. All things will keep their lives in that sense._ _If you're asking if they will be spared _this _time around? ...no. They don't deserve it."_

Ingward nodded. "Good," he said; it was the answer he'd been looking for. "My fellow kind have done everything they could do disrupt the order of things. They know nothing of loyalty or of servitude or of _atonement _for that matter. And they deserve their punishment. Come now, Darkstalker. Let us see what I can do about that pesky second seal."

Kaathe's grin widened. The serpent bowed its head reverently and slithered its way back beneath the ebony surface of the water. Its brethren followed shortly behind it, and Ingward was left alone. He pulled the key from within his robes, turned, and headed off to the lowest level of the ruins. The path there was a dark, narrow, clandestine, thing that twisted around towers and keeps and wound beneath rock tunnels carved into the earth that had been there since, perhaps, the beginning of _all_ things. It emptied out to a cavern, where the waters spilled from above to pool at the cave's center in a swirl of darkness. Beyond, a waterfall blanketed an indentation in the rock wall, and the key Ingward held was the only thing in Lordran that would fit within.

Kaathe and his serpent brethren slithered up from shadowed nooks of water that lined the cave's perimeter to stand watch. Ingward bowed to the Darkstalker, squeezed the sealer's key between knuckles that had gone bone-white, and made his feet carry him into the room's central pool. Water seeped through the leathers of his boots and soaked his feet, but the Sealer did not care, did not hardly notice. His attention was held too raptly upon that queer indentation behind the veil of water, and before he'd even been aware he'd done so, he was standing before it with his arm stretched in front of him; the key dangling now between shaking fingers. He looked back to Kaathe.

"_Choice is power_," the serpent hissed.

"_The only true power,_" another spoke.

"_Wield it, Sealer."_

_"And right the wrongs of your kind."_

_"Serve the cycle beside us. Let is wash away the humans' sins."_

_"Let it atone."_

_"All men must pay for their sins, after all."_

"All men must pay for their sins," Ingward agreed, reached forth, and plugged his key into the wall.

For a moment, nothing happened, and Ingward was left to drown in the silence of the serpents around him, his eyes narrowed in fearfully upon the key as the waterfall spilled over his hooded head. Then the rock faded, as if had only been an illusion all along, and a coldness so profound came sweeping upon him from within, his breath locked in his throat and he went as stiff as a board.

Ingward fell back to splash into the pool of water at his heels. His nose was filled with the thick, pungent, scent of the dead, and his eyelids had peeled back so wide, his face had began to hurt. The tunnel he'd unleashed twisted down into the depths of Lordran itself, and from within, he could see the outlines of dark shapes moving forth in a relentless march.

When the Darkwraiths finally emerged, Ingward was so frightened, he could only mouth soundless screams and clutch to his hammering heart as they came to look upon him. The knights who had, once, followed the four kings before the whole lot of them went to darkness, came filing out to swarm past Ingward, lying useless and terrified in the water. He could only catch glimpses of one of them before the sight grew too maddening to bear and he had to flick his eyes to another. Black armor and black swords sharpened to points at the tops. Masks-_Or, perhaps, that is their face now, _Ingward thought-that resembled a man's with the skin blown clean away to reveal the ugly structure of bone and sinew beneath. Gloved hands that were, at one moment, red and at the next, black. Ingward could not stand it anymore: he shut his eyes.

"_Send them away, Kaathe! I can't bear to look at them any longer!_" He shouted to be heard over the endless stream of footsteps marching out from Lordran's depths around him.

Kaathe did not respond, however, and after a moment, Ingward _had _to force his eyes back open, lest his own thoughts drive him even madder than the sight of the wraiths.

A Darkwraith was standing over him, staring down at him from eyes that, when peered into, revealed twin tunnels into the blackness that was a man's heart. Ingward screamed. The Darkwraith's head cocked on its side. It dropped its sword.

Ingward's head snapped to his right and spotted Kaathe hovering in the shadows, watching, grinning. Beside him, a new serpent had risen to watch the madness unfold as well. It was, Ingward saw with another strike of utter perplexity befalling him, _Frampt_. The two, who had always seemed opposed to one another did not look so opposed any longer. Frampt wore the same, satisfied, grin his brother did as the two watched Ingward from afar. _The cycle, _he realized. _Of course they aren't opposed to one another. In the end, like all things, they serve the cycle. _

Ingward eyes returned to the wraith above him and he screamed once more, but it did not last long.

The Darkwraith set its hand aglow with a pale, white, light and thrust it forth to Ingward's chest. He was lifted off the ground with the creature's inhuman strength, and dangled before it.

_What have you done? _Ingward thought as the wraith's glowing hand wrapped his throat and squeezed. The strangest sensation came over him, as if his very _soul _were being torn from his body, and a pain so severe it threatened to send him into unconsciousness gripped every last inch of his body, making it hard to breath, hard to see, hard to think. _What have you _done_?_

When the Darkwraith finished, Ingward was released; his long watch over the New Londo Ruins finally at its end.

His now-eyeless skull rolled back to float in the water, and as the man died racked in excruciating pain and suffocated in his own blindness, his parting thoughts were, _Served the cycle. At least I've done that._

_I hope._


	40. Chapter 40

Izalith's great lakes of lava lie dormant and extinguished beneath the rocky fall of stone that was the once-fiery lands roof, and the only thing left in their place were massive sprawls of ice; blue and cold and endless. Where volcanic mounds once rose to spew Lordran's inner flame, jagged sheets of ice-caked rock had taken their place. Where fires once burned, smoke now swirled. Where demons once crawled, only frozen corpses now lay. Where Lordran's heart had once beat, only ruin now resided: still and quiet and dead.

Quelana stepped atop the frozen lake that looked over Izalith-a dry smoke sizzling where the soles of her bare feet met the ice-and stared forth into the barren lands she'd once called home. Near a cavernous indentation in the rock wall at the back of the ruins, a massive icicle cracked at its base and spilled down to the frozen lake below, colliding against the surface with a shatter that rumbled the entirety of Izalith itself. Cracks raced across the lake, and somewhere further along, Quelana could hear the icy waters beneath sloshing about, waiting, perhaps, for something to nourish their cold and insatiable hunger. Deeper within, some great beast moaned a sorrowful, pain-stricken, wail that was choked off almost immediately; its reverberation dancing queerly off the high walls of the ruins in spurts.

She walked forward and watched the ice splinter underfoot, as if her every step were killing it as _it _had killed Izalith. She pulled her robes tighter to her body as a wind swept from some unseen tunnel in the earth and sent her hair spiraling wildly out before her eyes. Quelana clawed it aside and tucked it beneath her hood, refusing to let it turn her back.

She was nearing the lake's center (with no true destination in mind) when the _thump _froze her feet to the ice they laid upon. Quelana narrowed her eyes to the nearest semiopaque patch that dotted the lake's surface and cocked her head as a figure began floating up from the darkness below to take form. As it neared, and she saw what horror was rising to meet her, Quelana's breath caught in her chest and she tried turning in retreat, but found she could no longer move. When she looked down, she found her feet _had _in fact been frozen in place; the lake itself reaching up to lock blue and white tendrils around her pale ankles.

Ice splintered, cracked, and broke, and Quelana could do nothing but stand and watch as the monster below rose up to stand before her. When it had, her fears were confirmed: it was her sister, Quelaan, The Fair Lady, risen from the black void beneath Izalith to come for Quelana.

Her sister was tall, naked, save for a thin sheet of blue ice wrapped around her chest and legs, and was weeping beneath a fall of frail, silvery, hair that lay around her face in unkempt tangles. Beneath, Quelana could see rheumy eyes, emerald green like her own, peering out at her: a gleam of mad interest swirling within. Her sister moved her arm aside, and when she did, Quelana saw she carried the severed head of the Knight of Thorns with her. The man was watching Quelana as well, a twisted smile curled up his plump and bloodied lips.

Quelana made to command her flames between Quelaan and herself to protect her, but when she did, her arm would not move. She looked to see it too had frozen solid; the ice below slowly creeping its way up her body to seal her in its cold embrace forever.

The Fair Lady took a timid step forward and Kirk's head began laughing an insane, delighted, laugh. '_Snuff the flame_', it sang. '_Snuff the flame, snuff the flame, snuff the flame._'

Further behind The Fair Lady, more cracks formed on the lake's surface, and Quelana watched in horror as the rest of her sisters came crawling out to join the first; pale hands deformed into claws ripping up through the ice and pulling the monster's below up to the surface. Each of their eyes were held hungrily on Quelana's own as they approached; formless, hideous, creatures that had once been beautiful before the chaos had taken them all. All but _her_. Quelana made to scream, but the ice had worked its way up around her lips, sealing them shut and entering into her throat to freeze her _insides _as well.

"Come for you soul, witch," Kirk's head barked between fits of laughter. "Told you she'd have it, didn't I?"

Quelaan's sickly-blue lips lifted into what might have been a smile beneath her tangle of silver hair. She raised her free hand forward to close the gap between Quelana and herself, and her fingers were not made of flesh, but of pure ice. Behind her, the rest of the Daughters of Chaos were joined in, closing tightly around Quelana's helplessly frozen body.

Quelana whimpered into the ice that had tunneled between her lips, down her throat, and into her belly to extinguish her inner flame. Her eyes flicked from one sister to the next as they neared and neared, hands outstretched to grasp her, to take her, to pull her down into the lake of cold that awaited and seal her away forever as punishment for her abandonment.

And Kirk's head laughed and laughed and laughed.

**-o-o-o-**

She woke in the darkness of the little room Andre had assigned her, gasping for breath, and when her hand moved to her throat, for one mad moment, she thought it felt like ice. Quelana commanded a flame to the tip of her finger, and when the light bathed the room in its glow, she calmed herself. She quelled the fire, clambered up out of the mound of blankets she'd made her bedding, and pushed open the thin piece of wood they'd nailed up that was serving as the room's 'door'.

In the hall outside, the upper level of the church was, for the most part, quiet. A man and woman were having a cordial exchange down near the fall of steps that wound towards the main chapel, and a group of children were squealing with excited delight as they played hide-and-seek at the other end. Quelana watched them a moment, letting their youthful innocence drive that last cobwebs of the nightmare that still clung to her mind away. One of the littler boys noticed her, and when his big brown eyes fell upon her, they widened and his breath caught. Quelana smiled, raised a hand between them, and made her flames dance across the tips of her fingers back and forth. The boy's expression of fear was replaced with one of awe, and when Quelana extinguished the light, he laughed, bowed his head appreciatively, and ran off to join his friends.

"My lady," a voice came from the shadows beside her door.

Quelana spun towards the sound, half-expecting a monster made of ice awaiting her, but only the pyromancer, Laurentius, emerged. She breathed relief.

Laurentius took her hand in his own and kissed at it. "I'm sorry to have frightened you, my lady. I only kept myself hidden so that I may keep watch over you as your rested."

Quelana was quick to snatch her hand back. Since they'd arrived at the church ten days earlier, the pyro had been clinging to her every step, never straying far from her. It was… a bit disconcerting, in truth. "Well, thank you for that, I suppose, Laurentius, but I'm not entirely sure what you're keeping watch over me _for_…"

"So that no harm should befall you, of course, my lady."

"Are you expecting harm to come looking for me?"

Soft laughter rumbled from beneath his brown hood. "Of course not, Quelana. But if it should, I shall be there to stave it off. For you… my lady."

He made to take her hand again, but Quelana turned her shoulder so that his arm only grazed against her own. "You have my thanks, Laurentius," she said curtly, and began heading off down the hall.

He was quick to fall in beside her. "Solaire and his group haven't yet returned," Lauretnius explained, slipping his arm beneath her own to walk alongside her. Quelana sighed, but did not move to escape him. "There are those who begin to worry downstairs. It's been three days now. I, of course, carry no such concerns. The Knight of Sunlight is brave and true, and the men he travels with are no cowards either."

"On that we agree," she said as they rounded the curve at the end of the hall and passed beneath the arched stone that led to the next hall.

"Though one must wonder, admittedly, what Solaire and Tarkus and the rest have been _doing _out there," said Laurentius. "To scout the city of Anor Londo would not have taken more than a day. If they were taken unawares by some rogue squad of hollows, as many below have began to claim, Solaire surely would have had the wits about him to send a man in retreat to carry the news to us."

"Solaire knows what he's doing," Quelana said. "If he felt it was important to scout further into the city, or perhaps even somewhere _else_… I trust his instincts."

"As do I, my lady. As do I. It's just… well, there is a pressure stirring amongst those left here. People are growing uneasy without the knight and Tarkus' presence. It will be good for them to see you. You are one of the few remaining strong enough to defend them." The pyromancer's look darkened beneath his hood as they began the descent of the church's stairs. "Young Benjamin certainly hasn't been doing anything to help their unease. Him and his little gang… they walk around here like they own the place. Andre doesn't care for it, and neither do I. Abby… well, you know what she's been up to. And _Lautrec_-"

"I assure you I know what he's been up to as well," Quelana interrupted. _There are few these days who don't, _she thought.

"Yes," the pyromancer said with a grimace. "If you ask me, it is quite the cowardly thing to do, especially of a knight. Turn into a drunk when the women and children around you need your skills most." He shook his head. "Craven. You know, my lady, _I _would never-"

"I don't wish to discuss the knight of Carim anymore," she said amicably enough, and her request was enough to make Laurentius hold his tongue as they finished their journey to the chapel.

The church's main hall was filled with the sound of chatter and the banging and slamming of the carpentry taking place just outside the stained glass windows that poured colorful light down upon the pews and tables that littered its center. Quelana leaned out to peer around a pillar and saw a large group huddled together near the church's entrance in the next room, swarming around Rickert as he stood upon a raised bit of stone, gesturing with his arms and relaying a story, a sly grin upon his face as he did so. He, apparently, had said something rather funny, as a roar of laughter rumbled from the group and the young man pantomimed himself getting punched in the stomach.

The freckled woman who had been quick to befriend Quelana, Sieglinde, came shoving through the crowd with a cluster of wooden planks, wrapped together with a leather band, slung atop her broad shoulders. Rickert muttered something to the crowd after she'd passed and they laughed again. Sieglinde ignored it, flashing a toothy smile Quelana's way as she passed to head outside.

A shout from the chapel's direction caught Quelana's attention. She walked out of the pillar's shadow, Laurentius quick to hurry beside her, and looked to the church's head. Beneath the crumbled statue there, Ben and Rhea were standing across one another, their eyes locked fiercely upon each other's, as Andre stirred a boiling pot in his little makeshift kitchen behind them. Behind Ben, his usual gang were leaned up against the wall around him. Patches was chewing on a toothpick, casting a bored, disinterested, look upon the priestess whom Ben was arguing with. Pharis-or at least, that is what she _claimed _her name was-was beside him, and Quelana had seen the woman looking upon Ben with more and more interest in her pale blue eyes as the days drew on in the chapel, and then was no different. She smiled as Ben's voice rose, almost as if she were _proud _of his anger.

Perhaps more disturbing than anything was the sorcerer, Griggs, whom Quelana had sworn she'd seen dead in Logan's dungeon, but who had risen to flee the fallen castle and join them. He had fallen in with Ben as well, never straying far from the boy, that queer, disconcerting, smile never straying far from the man's _face_. He was huddled up in their group in a fall of violet robes, swaying his hips as he watched the argument unfold before him.

"He's a _child_!" Rhea snapped, the priestess' comely face taking on a foreign expression of anger.

"All the more reason to teach him a lesson," Ben said calmly, sticking a finger in the woman's face.

_He's grown, _Quelana thought, looking Benjamin over. He was tall, at least a whole head over Rhea, and the beard she'd see sprawling across his cheeks and chin had filled in, making him less and less like the boy Lautrec and herself had gone to retrieve from the Asylum so long ago, and more like a man whom she did not know.

"Teach him a lesson!?" Rhea asked, her brow lifting incredulously. "You have the audacity to call what you want to do a _lesson_?"

"My father did the same to me," Ben said. "And I learned from it. As he will."

"You're not touching that child!" Rhea demanded.

"_You _aren't in charge here."

"And neither are you!"

Quelana climbed the short stack of stairs to the chapel area, but it was not Ben or Rhea who spotted her-_their _attention was still held too fiercely on one another's-it was Patches. He rolled his eyes upon glimpsing her approach and pushed off the wall to step between her and Ben with his hand raised. "Stay out of this, witch. This is a _human _issue."

Rhea turned and Quelana saw the relief wash across her pretty face immediately. "Lady Quelana, thank Father Eternal."

Ben's dark eyes flicked to her as well and narrowed, but he voiced no protest.

"What's going on here?" She asked, coming as near as she could before Patches' hand moved to halt her.

"I said it's none of your concern, _witch_," Patches growled.

Laurentius held a gloved hand to Patches' face and extended a finger. "You watch your tongue, Hyena. You speak to the Mother of Pyromancy. She could melt your bald head right off your shoulders in a _second _should she choose to."

Patches laughed. "Perhaps so. A shame that would rather upset my friends behind me. I wonder… how many arrows you think you could put in the witch's chest before she hits the ground, Pharis?"

The red-headed woman lowered her hand to her hip so that her fingers could dance along the quiver of arrows there. "Plenty," she answered with a grin.

"_Enough_!" Andre roared, turning from his pot of stew to fix each of them with a frown in turn. "If yer all going to go bloody kill yerselves, go do it outside! I'm cooking the meal that's going to feed yer damned bellies here!"

Rhea shouldered past Patches to take Quelana's hand in her own. "Lady Quelana," she began, "one of the children, Thomas his name is, made a mistake. Ben wants to _burn _the boy for it!"

"Oh quit the dramatics, woman," Patches said. "He doesn't want to _burn _the kid, he wants to put a little mark his hand."

"Mark?" Quelana questioned. "What did this Thomas child do?"

"Little bastard burned up the wood!" Pharis piped up.

"By _accident_!" Rhea insisted. "He was playing outside with some of the other children. There was a bundle of wood they were using as a little play-fort or something, and Thomas dropped it too near to a fire and forgot about it. That's all!"

"He _ruined _it," Ben said.

"Aye," Patches agreed. "And good men, myself among them, have risked our lives heading into that damned Darkroot Garden to _retrieve _that bloody wood. We need it for fires, for cooking, for shelter. And the boy ruined it. Now he needs punishment."

"If Solaire was here, you wouldn't be so openly callous!" Rhea snapped.

"If the Knight of Sunlight were here, I'd be even more _so_," Patches defended. "He'd understand. A crime needs punishment. That's how you keep things in order."

"And what has been your punishment for your crime against Lautrec in the Burg?" Quelana asked, fixing the Hyena with a shrewd look. "Perhaps we should '_mark_' you as well?"

Patches' expression darkened only briefly before his grin rose. "Perhaps we should. Go _get_ the drunk and drag him in here to mark me. Hee-hee. Let's see if he can hold the iron steady enough."

"Bring me the child," Ben said. "I will heat my dagger over a flame and lay it, briefly, upon his hand. It will hurt, sure. It will leave a mark, definitely. But he _will _learn, and the next time he is at 'play' he will be more cautious."

"I will not stand by and watch an innocent child harmed," Rhea told him.

"And she doesn't stand alone," Quelana added, falling in line beside the priestess.

Ben's eyes flicked between the two of them. He shook his head, raised his arm before him, and pulled the leather glove adorned upon it free. Beneath, the flesh atop his hand was marked with white scar lines. "There's my mistake. I was racing my friends on horseback through the woods near our home and I foolishly led my steed right into a crick and broke its legs. We lost a good horse that day, and my father gave me this mark. It hurt and, at the time, I hated him for it. But I learned. And I never made that mistake again." He narrowed his look on Quelana. "If that child makes another mistake, the responsibility will lie solely with _you_, Quelana. Are you prepared for that kind of responsibility?"

_Who is this man? _Quelana thought, holding Ben's dark eyes. Whatever had happened to him between leaving him with Domhnall in the Burg and now had filled him with some self-righteous confidence. She could see his little gang behind him beaming with pride as they looked upon her, nodding. "I'll bear the responsibility," she told Ben. "You just don't go and make anymore decisions like that without consulting with Solaire or myself first. Understood?"

"The two of you aren't in charge," he said. "Don't forget that." And with those words, he turned and sauntered off; his group quick to fall in line behind him.

When they'd gone, Rhea turned an appreciative smile on Quelana and gripped her arm. "Thank you, Lady Quelana. If you weren't here, well, I'm not sure what might've happened. I think, well, perhaps that Benjamin is… well, a rather mean-spirited young man."

"Him, or perhaps the company he keeps," Quelana agreed, turning to watch them disappear around the the church's side entrance. "I'd stay clear of them if possible, Rhea."

"Yes… on that we agree," the priestess said, bowed, and headed off.

"Blood squabbles in _my_ kitchen…" Andre muttered, returning to his stew and testing it with a wooden ladle.

"Perhaps we can go for a walk, my lady," Laurentius suggested. She'd nearly forgotten he was beside her, and so his words startled her a bit. He laughed and reached for her hand. "No need to be frightened, Quelana. I won't bite. You have my word on that."

She slipped her hand away from his. "Laurentius, please. Could I, perhaps, just be alone a moment?"

The pyromancer's smile wavered beneath his hood. He swallowed, seeming to have to fight to keep it in place as he looked upon her. "...yes. Of course, my lady. Should you need me, a simple call of my name and I will be at your side to serve you hand and foot."

"I won't need you," she said, trying not to sound rude, but knowing she'd failed.

He lost the fight with his waning smile. "I see. Well… perhaps tomorrow you will feel differently."

"Perhaps," she said.

Laurentius lifted her hand, kissed at it, and left her to join Rickert's howling group of men beyond the rows of church pews. Quelana watched him go, wondering if his affection for her would cause her any problems in the future. When the answer did not come clearly, she set the thought aside and headed off towards the church's side entrance.

Outside, the rain-which had ceased to stop falling since the day it had started-was trickling gently along the wooden planks the men and women had set up to act as a sort of awning against the storm. Quelana looked above them, towards the setting sun in the West, and then to the purple swell of clouds that crawled nearer and nearer from the East. A soft rumbling of thunder growled through the air, carrying with it the fresh scent of rain and a chilly breeze that reminded Quelana of her nightmare, and of that mad vision of an icy Izalith she'd glimpsed within.

She pried her eyes from the coming storm and walked beneath the wooden awning. Within, men and women were grouped in lined rows separated by more wood, each working diligently within their own little nook on various tasks. Women near the head of the path were busy sewing blankets from scraps of cloth and tattered drapes and sheets. Further on, animal carcasses were being skinned; though most were the deformed dogs from the burg, and _their _skin was thin and frail and did not carry much use. At the end of the awning's shelter, men were gathered about, sawing apart trees and chopping up wood. Amongst them, a single young woman was on her knees, working, perhaps, harder than any of them on slimming down a hunk of wood to planks.

"Abby," Quelana called.

Abby lifted her head, swiping sweat from her dirty brow with the back of her sleeve. When her eyes fell upon Quelana, a smile rose up her face and she laughed. Quelana moved forward just as Abby was climbing to her feet, and the two embraced one another. "Quelana," Abby greeted, squeezing her. "I missed you. Are you okay?"

"Yes, and I'm sorry my absence troubled you," Quelana told her as they parted each other's arms. "I needed the last few days alone to… think about some things." She looked Abby over. If there was one thing in Lordran she could feel _good _about, it was the girl. Abby's complexion had returned to her, her hair growing back out to fall around her face in falls of chestnut-brown waves, and when she smiled, it seemed to brighten Lordran itself. "Still keeping busy?" Quelana asked.

Abby nodded. "Domhnall is a good teacher. I know how to sew now and how to chop wood and how to skin an animal. He's teaching me how to cook, too."

"Aye siwmae," Domhnall's amicable voice greeted from a bit further down the line. The merchant's horned helm was beside him as he separated a pile of logs, and he was smiling beneath his mop of auburn hair. "She's got a bit to go on the cooking, though, Lady Quelana. I was the unfortunate one to test her last meal."

Abby's face reddened. "I didn't _mean _to make you sick…"

Domhnall laughed. "Oh, I didn't mind, Abby. I knew every ache of my belly was in servitude of turning you into a fine cook. ..._someday_," he added with a wink.

"And you're still reading?" Quelana asked. The second day they'd spent at the church, Solaire had led a small team back to the Archives to retrieve what supplies they could make use of. Everyone had put in their separate requests of the knight and his men, and Abby's had simply been to bring back one sack of books from the library. Solaire had brought back three.

"Oh yes," Abby said, her smile widening. "Every night. I'm learning a lot, Quelana. I… I just have a feeling there's something we don't understand yet. In Vinheim, our teachers told us books were the keepers of all the world's knowledge. If there's something to be learned that could aid us, I promise to learn it. They help me sleep, too. I never thought I'd appreciate sleep so much, but after what happened at the Archives…" Abby's smile faded.

Quelana squeezed her arm. "_That _is over now, Abby. Don't dwell on it. You've done a wonderful job recovering, and if there is something to be found in those books, I couldn't think of a better mind set to find it."

"You're so kind to me…" Abby said, lowering her gaze. "You don't know how much it means to me after the things I did and said at the Archives to treat me like this."

Quelana grazed Abby's cheek with the back of her hand. "It's alright, Abby. Why don't you come inside? It looks like Andre's almost ready to serve dinner."

"Oh, no," Abby said, shaking her head. Her eyes moved behind Quelana's shoulders and narrowed, as if looking for something. "I don't want to cause any trouble."

"Trouble?"

She sighed. "Ben… I don't think he likes me very much."

_Ben,_ Quelana thought bitterly. The young man's name was seemingly associated with everyone's troubles these days. "Don't let him bully you, Abby."

Abby shrugged. "It's fine. I just stay out of his way. I like it out here anyway." She took a deep breath, tugging at the corner of her leather jerkin. "Have you… talked to Lautrec at all?"

"No," Quelana admitted. "I don't think anyone has. He doesn't seem very interested in talking these days."

"It's my fault, you know," Abby said. "Whatever he's suffering through that's made him turn to the wineskin every night… it's my fault."

"Suffering doesn't last forever," Quelana told her. "When it ends, he _will _thank you for saving his sister's life."

"I… hope you're right." Abby sighed and glanced down at her woodwork. "I should get busy if I want to get a hour or two of reading in tonight. Thank you for coming to see me, Quelana, and… if it's possible… would you check in on him? I know no one else has the courage or concern to."

"Lautrec?"

Abby nodded. "If there's one person here who he might talk to… I think it would be you."

"Why me?"

Abby smiled wistfully. "Since we all came together, I've seen a look in his eye when he gazed upon you from time to time that I didn't understand until I believe the same look came to _my _eye for _him_. Somewhere in there, he has affection for you, Quelana. I think, perhaps, my bitterness towards you when I couldn't sleep at the Archives may have stemmed from that very notion. But that was a girl's love, and the girl I was is gone. The woman in me understands the heart wants what it wants and it will never be steered by anything but its own desires."

"Wise words, Abby. Wise words," Domhnall piped up from behind them.

"I'll… try," Quelana said. "I can't promise I'll get anything out of him. From what I hear, no one has."

Abby nodded, squeezing Quelana's hand. "Thank you, Quelana. I'm so happy you're here with us. I… I don't feel afraid knowing you are my ally."

_And I hope that feeling won't fade when I leave you, my sweet child, _Quelana thought. She mulled over telling Abby the decision she'd arrived upon in her days holed up in the church's upper level, but when she looked upon the girl's smile, she couldn't bear to be the one to erase it with the news. Instead, she returned the gesture and nodded before leaving Abby and Dom to head back inside.

As night fell upon the Parish, the ensconced torches were lit, the church hall was filled, the tables brought together, and the smell of Andre's stew seemed to put a quiet eagerness in every man and woman that gathered along the benches that lined either side of the long table. Spare chairs were shuffled forth, their feet screeching along the stone-slabbed floor, and every last inch of the dinner table was filled. Ben and his group were clustered around the end of the table, listening and laughing as Patches told a story. When Abby and Domhnall came in, Quelana saw the girl's eyes move warily to Benjamin, and she was quick to seat herself as far away as possible. Quelana would have sat with her, but there was no room, so she seated herself down between Anastacia and the heavy-set man, Vince; the former flashing a wan smile her way, the latter licking at his plump lips and staring towards the chapel, where Andre and Sieglinde were carefully guiding out the massive black pot of steaming stew.

"If you spill that on the floor, Andre," Rickert began (he and Rhea has seated themselves across the table from Quelana), "I'm so damned hungry I'd likely slurp it up anyway."

"Please don't spill it on the floor then," Rhea added. "I'd rather not see Rickert eat, well, floor-soup."

The young man beside the priestess laughed and laid his hand atop hers. Rhea did not remove it, and Quelana found herself pleased that the two had, seemingly, finally stopped dancing around the fact they cared for one another.

"No one's spillin' the damned soup," Andre growled, his large muscle tense beneath his mane of grey hair as he hauled the pot to the front of the table with Sieglinde. When the massive thing was slammed atop the wood, he began fishing out bowls from a container at his feet, filling them, and giving the order to pass them down the line. Quelana found herself counting the mouths he'd need to feed and realized, despite the enormity of the pot, it would be impossible to feed them all. She opted not to eat, so that someone else might. Anastacia did the same beside her, but Quelana thought it was, perhaps, for another reason. The firekeeper had looked absolutely terrified almost every moment of the waking day since they'd arrived at the church. _Can you blame her? _Quelana thought, watching as Anastacia's eyes flicked warily around the room. _She knows he still wants to kill her. And he's out there._

Since she was not eating, Quelana excused herself from table, though the chatter had grown loud since the soup was served, and her voice was practically lost within it. As she passed the longtable, she heard someone asking about when they were going to come up with a plan, and another answering they were waiting for Solaire and his men to return. Another mocked the 'Chosen' for not having any answers, but a sharp retort from Patches silenced the mockery as quickly as it had come about. One group was engaged in discussing the fact that Solaire might just be dead, and why he hadn't returned to them yet. Another claimed they saw the crossbreed (who had fled to the skies the day the rest of them set out for the Parish) circling over the church, waiting to snatch up the children. Quelana did not believe _that _foolish bit of gossip for one second. Another woman was going on with some tale of screams coming up from the ruins of New Londo in the middle of the night. And yet another was insisting that Quelana herself should be outcast so that the Gods did not think they were aligned with the demons of Izalith. When Quelana passed the woman, her friends tugged at her skirt, and when she spun around and glimpsed the 'witch of Izalith' before her, all the color ran from her cheeks until they were as pale as Quelana's own. Quelana ignored her.

Beneath the arched doorway of the church's entrance, the rain had began falling heavier as the darkness of night settled in. Quelana pulled her robes tighter to her body as she stepped into the storm, her bare feet splashing in the puddles that had formed in the uneven falls of land. She crossed through the church's courtyard, taking glimpses of the shelters that had been built on either side of wooden planks and metal support bars. A long fall of stairs, slick with rain, carried her beneath a massive portcullis and out to the Parish streets.

Overhead, on a thin bridge of stone that crossed right over the middle of the street, the knight of Carim was swaying back on his heels, taking aim with a bow. Quelana halted, watching as he loosed a shaft to go sailing through the streets and burst apart against the wall at the far end. He had, apparently, been aiming for a stacked pot. If so, he had aimed poor.

"Do we have arrows to waste on such a game?" Quelana asked, raising her voice to be heard from below him.

Lautrec turned to face her and nearly lost his footing. The rain had soaked his hair, sticking it to his face in wet clumps, and he had to claw it away and squint to make her out. When he had, he scoffed and nocked another arrow. Quelana's eyes found two wineskins at his feet: the first, empty; the second, half-empty. She sighed and headed down the road to take the twist of stairs up so she was on his level.

When she came upon him again, the bow in his hand had been replaced by the wineskin. He took a long pull off it, a dark spill of red coming away when he dropped it from his mouth. He swiped the wine clean, reached for a torch near his feet, and tossed it to her. "Here, witch. Make yourself useful."

Quelana caught it, barely, and hesitated only briefly before realizing he wanted her to light it. She did, sticking it in a sconce near the parapets at her side, and casting its light to flicker upon Lautrec, his wineskins, and the bridge he teetered dangerously upon. He stared at her only long enough, apparently, to remember he wanted another drink. He took it.

"You know they _are _going to run out of wine sooner or later," Quelana told him. "What will you use to kill yourself then?"

Lautrec shrugged. "Heard the sharp side of a dagger works pretty well."

"If you're going to throw your life away like this, why don't you throw it away _helping _the people who can still find use for you?" Quelana snapped. "Are you still such a fool after everything you've been through?"

"Fool…" He muttered, shaking his head so that his rain-soaked hair slapped against his cheeks. "The biggest one in Lordran." He swigged at the wineskin.

Quelana watched him drink, the rain quietly smattering the stone beneath them, playing the storm's soft, haunting, song. When he finished he tossed the empty thing to the streets below and hoisted the bow back to his shoulder. He nocked, aimed, loosed, and missed again. He muttered a curse, his eyes floating lazily to Quelana. "What do you want?"

"What do I _want_?"

"Ah, so you _can _hear beneath that heavy hood you always wear," he said with a bark of mirthless laughter. His eyes narrowed upon her. "Take it off, witch. It reminds me of death."

"Isn't that what you crave?"

"Maybe it is…" He admitted. "...but I don't want to be _reminded _of that fact. Remove it."

Quelana sighed. _A sad day when your at the whim of a drunk man's ramblings, _she thought, pulling the hood from her head. She winced as the rain fell upon her exposed brow.

Lautrec stared across the gap between them, swaying ever-so-slightly in his drunkenness. He sniffed, swiped rain from his face, and crossed the bridge. Quelana's posture stiffened when he rounded the bend of the parapets and reached for her arm. "What are you doing? I-" He pulled her to him and kissed at her lips. Quelana got her hands up between them and shoved him back. "What's the _matter _with you, you drunken fool!?"

Lautrec nearly fell from her push. His arms pinwheeled to catch his balance, and when it was _caught_ he frowned at her. "What are you doing out here if not coming to finally put this matter between us to rest."

"This _matter_!?" She echoed incredulously. "Are you mad?"

Lautrec shook hair from his face. "I desire you, witch. You've saved my life more than once now, and I'm but a man. Flesh and blood. If you're not aware of that fact yet… you're by far the bigger fool than I."

"You're _drunk_," she hissed.

"And what are you?" Lautrec asked, leaning upon the parapet to steady his sway. "Do you desire men as men, certainly, desire after you? You aren't human, but… surely, you know what you look like. The Gods, or… _whatever _created us, created _you _quite well. It would be an almost comical twist of cruel irony if you did not desire us in return."

Despite her anger with the knight, her thoughts managed to turn to Salaman. He had been her student once, in, perhaps, another life. He was a kind man with a comely face and he had been the first human she'd ever looked upon as something… _more _than a student. Then the flames had consumed it, turned him against her, and driven him all but mad. It was the last time she'd ever thought about a human in that way… lest she be driven just as mad.

"I know that look," Lautrec said, pointing across the gap between them. "You were in love. Was it with a man? Or was it with the _flames_?"

"I'm not going to discuss this with you," Quelana told him.

"No? Then why, witch, did you bother coming out here in the first place? You _didn't _come because of what could be between us?"

"I _came _for Abby's sake!" Quelana snapped. "You have the girl stricken with guilt because of this… drunken isolation you've delved into! It's not fair to Abby to-"

"_Fair!?_" Lautrec shouted so loudly, Quelana found herself recoiling from him. "Don't you dare talk about what's 'fair' to me. That girl has destroyed me, witch. She claimed she was 'freeing' me? All she did was trap me in this living hell my life has become. My anger hasn't left. If anything, its grown greater within me. But now… now when I look upon Ana's face I can see the girl I used to call my sister. _Now_… now I'm damned if I kill her… and damned if I don't…"

"You can make things right," Quelana said. "Go to you sister. _Talk _to her. You-"

"No," Lautrec answered. "You don't understand, witch. No one can. Imagine you had a purpose, so clear, so _defined_, that it drove your every action. Now imagine that purpose was driving you for _years_-_decades!_-and it was suddenly pulled from beneath your feet… No. I'm not going to Anastacia. Either I'll die with a wineskin in my hand, or a blade across my throat. And then… then maybe I will be at peace. Maybe I'll be 'free'."

Quelana shook her head. "You're throwing your life away when there are men and women and children who could _use _it!"

"Aaaah," Lautrec growled, grinning. "Everyone wants something… always has been true… always will be…" He, apparently, had decided he was losing the fight with his legs, and leaned into the parapets to drop to his ass. He swiped rain from his face and let his head rest back against the stone, watching as more fell upon him. "Everyone wants something…" he repeated.

Quelana watched as the man closed his eyes and only the smattering of rain remained to fill the silence. She wasn't entirely sure why, but she felt the sudden urge to tell him of the decision she'd came upon the previous day. After wrestling with the idea for a moment, she said, "When Solaire and his men return, and I'm sure Abby and the rest no longer need me, I'm leaving. I'm… returning to Izalith… to settle things with my sisters before… well, before the end."

Lautrec swallowed, though whether he was awake to hear her confession or not, she could not tell. She found herself watching the rain as it raced across his brow and chin, and thought he did not look so dissimilar from Salaman, in truth. She sighed, moved before him, and knelt to tug his cloak up over his brow so he didn't wind up drowning in the _rain _instead of the wine. "I can't care about you," she told him. "Because _you_ only care about yourself."

Lautrec's response was his head drooping to his chest; the knight was fast asleep.

For, perhaps, no other reason than she had no where else to go, Quelana sat beside him, staring out over the parapets that loomed over the forest, and watching as the moon rose in the night sky, thinking on how it looked like a giant slab of ice… like Izalith had become.

Sometime later, she fell asleep herself; the soft sounds of the rain guiding her into a dream about a fair lady, rising from a lake of ice, watching… and waiting.


End file.
